Someday
by Iellix
Summary: Will Scarlett is hopelessly in love with the woman he sees every day on the train; Djaq is mad for the shy young man she sits and talks with to and from work. And both are convinced the other will never feel the same way. Modern AU, Will/Djaq fluff.
1. Monday Morning

I'm baack! I decided to write another fanfic. Unfortunately, it turned out to be another AU fanfic. And it's a modern AU. I suppose in the story's favour, it's not a high school fic, so I hope that's _something._ Anyway, I hope you give the story a chance, since I know very few people like modern AU stories. It's basically just a bit of fun, something cute and fuzzy to write and read. I hope you like it!

Disclaimer: The BBC's characters are not my property. I'm just borrowing them and putting them in awkward situations.

0…0…0…0…0

o…o

Monday morning. The air was dry and shockingly cold, and the wind put a painful edge on that little below-zero nip in the air. It hurt to breathe, and numbed his ears and nose and cheeks; his hands were so cold they throbbed as they were clasped around a pair of styrofoam coffee cups. When the train finally arrived, he was relieved to join the crowd of people boarding it and get out of the bitter cold.

The train rattled back and forth in the dark underground tunnel, nearly lulling a barely-awake Will Scarlett back asleep again. He rested against the cold window, his head rocking against it and leaving forehead-prints on the glass. It was too dark to be awake, too cold to be out, and too early to be doing anything but sleeping. His trance was broken when the window suddenly became blindingly bright as the train came up from its underground tunnel. It startled him awake and he jolted himself upright, nearly tipping the two steaming cups into his lap. He knew this stop—the next one after it was…

He straightened nervously, used the window next to him to check his appearance. The side of his face was all red where he'd rested it against the window. His eyes were bleary. He tried to look as polished as he could manage at half past seven in the morning. He picked up his bag and placed it on the seat next to him—he wasn't going to let _anybody_ take that seat.

The train hissed to a stop at the station and the group of drowsy, zombie-like commuters stumbled in through the door and filed down the train aisles. He fixed his best death glare on anybody who lingered too long by the empty seat next to him, warning them away from it. But very few people even noticed; they were all too tired to want to bother arguing with even the slight-built young man who didn't look like he could hurt a fly.

Tired commuters were quietly dozing in their seats, chattering on mobiles phones, reading newspapers, and for the most part ignoring their fellow passengers. He didn't take his bag down from his seat—he'd made that mistake once before, and as soon as the train moved again an overly-chatty American tourist sat down next to him and didn't shut up until he got off the train to go to work.

They were back underground again. He felt a little jolt of excitement as the train neared the next station. It was silly—he'd taken this ride every day since he got this job three years ago. He'd seen _her_ everyday. There was no reason to get stupidly, pubescently excited about the woman who was going to squeeze on board the train with the next herd of riders at the upcoming stop.

But he was. And he felt stupid about it, like an awkward high school student swooning over an unattainable crush. His entire life revolved around the thirty minutes a day he'd get to talk to her—fifteen minutes on the way to work, fifteen minutes on the way back. Every day. For three years. He spent the first six months watching her get on and off the train, watching her every move as she read or dozed—all the while hoping and _praying_ for her to say something to him. He was ridiculous. He could never talk to women. Clearly they taught that in school during the three weeks he was absent with pneumonia.

He remembered watching her for those months, waiting for _her_ to talk first. Allan, his roommate and best friend, found out about it and teased him incessantly for it. Allan was always much more confident and far better at talking to girls than he ever was, and there were days that he wished that he rode the same train and could initiate conversation _for_ him. Of course, if Allan ever _had_ said anything, it would likely have been something humiliating, like, "Hey, my friend is madly in love with you and wants to marry you and someday father your children," so perhaps it was just as well that he didn't. And then one day she _did_ say something to him.

"D'you mind if I sit here?" She'd asked, pointing to the empty seat next to him.

He was shocked to find her standing there and he'd dumbly nodded, staring at her, and she sat down. He went on sketching, then, and tried his best to think of something to say. But he forgot how to speak and couldn't get past the fact that she was _sitting next to him._

Then she'd spoken again, looking over his shoulder and complimenting him on his doodle of a rose on a paper napkin from the coffee place. "Nice drawing."

It was all he could do at the time to keep from blurting out, "I love you." He tried desperately to remember something—_anything—_in the English language before he squeaked out a spectacularly high-pitched "Thank you." He'd sounded like an anthropomorphic chipmunk.

Since then, she sat with him every day and the talking had been easier. They chatted idly every morning as they sleepily rode the train to the last stop, and every night as they tiredly rode back to their respective stops. Very occasionally their lunch breaks would coincide and they'd grab a bite together before she had to run back to the doctor's office again. He tried to learn as much as he could about her in the time they had, in hopes that one day he'd have the ammunition necessary to sweep her off her feet. And the more he learned about her, the deeper in love he fell. She was perfect, as far as he was concerned. He _lived_ for those times when they could talk—thirty minutes every day and the occasional rushed lunch. He was absolutely pathetic.

The train hissed to a slow stop once again, and he looked out the window at the group forming on the platform, looking for the familiar figure. He couldn't see her, but he didn't suspect that she wasn't there. She came to work no matter what, even if she was sick as a dog. He sat up a little straighter in anticipation.

The push of commuters squeezed in through the doors and into the aisles and descended on the remaining unoccupied seats like vultures.

"Pardon—'scuze me! Coming through. Pardon me. Shove up, please."

He recognized that voice, with the delectable husky accent.

People were jerking back and forth as they were shoved out of the way by another body pushing through the crowd. The first thing he saw poking through the mass of bodies was a head of short dark hair, followed by a petite form in purple doctor's scrubs and white lab coat under a long black winter coat. She squeezed through the last of the people in her way before somebody gave her a shove, forcing her to lunge to catch herself on the seat in front of her. And then some careless person walked by and bashed her in the head with his briefcase.

"Ow!" She yelped.

"Are you all right?" He asked gently, moving his bag and helping her into the seat.

"Yeah—ow. Yeah." She grunted and rubbed her head where she'd been hit, and shrugged her bag off of her shoulder. "Jerk."

His heart beat wildly in his chest and he forced himself to breathe evenly. Djaq Bseiso. God, she was gorgeous. Soft dark skin, her cheeks rosy pink from the cold and the wind, big black-gem eyes, glossy black hair. Her hair was longer now than when they'd first met, down to her collarbones and kept in two jaunty little plaits down either side of her neck. She could easily be mistaken for a teenager, even though she was several years older than he was. As soon as she sat down next to him, she smiled that wide, knee-jellying smile and his breath caught in his throat.

He had to sit on his hand to stop himself from reaching out and stroking one of her short plaits or touching her cheek.

"Morning," she said.

He snapped out of his reverie. "Morning. Here," he handed her one of the cups. "It's a cold morning and I thought you might like something warm to drink—it's tea."

She took the cup gratefully. "Thank you," she sighed. "Oh, it's _awful_ cold out there! I am not made for this weather."

"Your desert blood, right?" He teased with a smile. That was always what she said about the cold weather—that she wasn't a creature of cold weather because of her heritage in the Mid East. The desert was in her blood.

"Yes—that is it exactly."

There were still people trying to get by in the aisles next to their seat, and she shifted closer to him to make room for grumpy, pushy passengers. She practically had to climb into his lap to avoid being smacked in the head with more briefcases and bags. He had to hold his breath and concentrate on absolutely anything else in the universe.

"Sorry about this," she apologized weakly as she tried to keep her head clear of passing commuters.

"It's all right," he managed to croak. "I don't… mind." Of course he didn't mind—not at all. She was squashed back against his shoulder, leaning away from the people in the aisle, nice and warm against him; he inclined forward ever so slightly and breathed deeply. Her hair smelled good—like some vaguely spicy shampoo. In his head he kept repeating over and over again, _'Don't touch! Don't touch!'_ to remind himself to keep a respectable distance between them.

Finally, the people in the aisles stopped moving and Djaq righted herself again. Will exhaled slowly and shakily as he felt himself bereft of the warmth where she'd been sitting. All he wanted to do was pick her up and plunk her back down in his lap where she belonged.

'_Don't touch!'_ came that persistent little voice of reason in the back of his head.

"So how was your weekend?" She asked him as she took a drink of her tea.

He snorted. "Fantastic. I babysat my bunkie all yesterday."

"Allan?" She asked, raising her eyebrows. "What did he do this time?"

He'd told her before about Allan and his myriad bad habits.

"He was out all night Saturday and came home _droolingly_ drunk very early Sunday morning, peed in the rubbish bin, and passed out in the bathtub with no pants on."

She snorted in her tea and sputtered briefly as she tried to laugh around her coughing. She was giggling helplessly with her face in her hand, her shoulders quaking mightily with laughter. He loved it when she laughed—she always looked so cute—and it didn't take a great deal to make her laugh so hard she cried, either. Recounting his roommate's antic and sometimes lunatic behaviour often provided the fodder necessary to make her dissolve into hysterical laughter, which was exactly what he wanted.

She was just so _painfully_ pretty. He sighed wistfully as he stared at her. Then he realized he was staring and immediately focused on an advert on the other side of the train.

"Sounds like you had an eventful weekend," she said when she'd stopped laughing.

"I'm glad you think it's so funny. Anything interesting happen to you?"

"Well, I didn't have to take care of a drunken flatmate. I could lie and say I did something interesting or exciting, but I did not go any further than the corner shop."

"The Playstation stole your soul again, didn't it?"

"Maybe just a little."

She smiled slightly.

He melted.

o…o

"Will? Are you at home in there? Hey, Will. William! Earth to Scarlett, come in Scarlett! You are needed urgently on the Holodeck!"

The voice went from dulled and distant to sharp and clear and directly over his head as he slowly came out of his trance.

He looked up with a blank, not quite lucid look on his face. He couldn't remember what he'd been doing—or what he'd _supposed_ to have been doing. He'd fallen into another one of those embarrassingly elaborate daydreams—in this one, Djaq fell asleep on the ride home and had to get off at _his_ stop, and somehow he'd managed to convince her to let him drive her home as opposed to, say, taking the train back to her stop; and then he'd gotten his courage together and leaned across the car and kissed her and _miraculously _she didn't slap him…

"Huhn?"

Ben was laughing, shaking his head as he sat down in the chair at the end of the table to continue laughing at him, and Will suddenly found himself fully back in the real world. He quickly remembered that he was supposed to be drafting for a sarcophagus bookcase, but instead had absently sketched a familiar pair of dark eyes on the corner of his blueprint paper. He looked down at it and felt himself begin to blush. The extent to which Djaq dominated his thoughts sometimes was embarrassing. He quickly covered up the sketch with another piece of paper and looked over to the side.

"You know, it's a damn good thing you're good at what you do," Ben told him. "You've been here, what? About three years?"

"Yeah."

"Any craftsman with his head in the clouds as much as you would've been out on his sorry ass a long time ago. But you're just so damn good at what you do that the boss just overlooks _everything."_

Will looked down guiltily. That was truer than he liked to admit; when he got to daydreaming or thinking about Djaq, he became completely lost in thought and hopelessly distracted and often did stupid or dangerous things that _should_ have cost him his job or even a limb. But he had a certain natural gift for his art, and was excused his absent-mindedness far more often than he should have been.

"Yeah, well…"

"Remember last year, when you accidentally slipped while prying a piece out of a dovetail joint and had to get five stitches in your hand?"

Of course he remembered that. How could he forget? The supervisor fainted when he saw the blood, and Ben had to wrap his hand in towels, and then arranged to send him across the road to the clinic where he could get his hand seen to. Djaq had been the attending physician. He was so humiliated that he wanted to just cut the hand off and slink away, never to be seen or heard of in England—or, if he could help it, the northern hemisphere—ever again.

It was also the _one_ time he'd ever held her hand, but he hardly thought that counted because she was wearing gloves and knitting his flesh back together. She was tender and gentle, and talked to him the whole time to keep his mind off of his injury and the embarrassment about it. When she was done, she gave him a lolly from the stash they gave to children who didn't kick the doctors while getting their routine jabs. And when she asked him if there was anything else he needed, he had to concentrate on not saying, "Could we have sex a few times and then talk marriage?" and shyly said no thank you, she'd done enough.

Hurting himself had been an extreme result of his carelessness. Most of the time, the slipups caused by his daydreaming were rather less serious—like he day he somehow succeeded in nailing his shirt to a board. He really was amazed at how much he got away with just so the studio could have use of his talents.

"I'll get back to work then," he said bashfully. He avoided Ben's eye and tried to clear his head of all traces of Djaq in order to focus on the task at hand.

The studio was big and open and airy, more like a warehouse, and as such it was cold during the winter months. Most people worked with their coats and gloves on when they could. Supplies and tools were stacked on the shelves all the way up to the ceiling; the sounds of table saws and drill presses, sanders and hammers, and people trying to talk over the din filled the air. The whole studio smelled like sawdust and stains and metal tang.

Will found the work environment familiarly comforting. It reminded him of his father's workshop, the one he had in the basement when he was growing up. His father was an engineer by trade, but in his spare time he was in the little house's basement—'making sawdust', as he always called it when he was working on a new project. Dan Scarlett was, by no means, a master craftsman, but from a young age Will had been fascinated by woodwork. It seemed only natural that he would pick art as his course of study in school. Managers from the studio had seen his work before at university art shows and hired him almost immediately after he graduated. He was glad—he enjoyed his work.

…when he was actually paying attention to it.

He sighed and started drawing out his bookcase on the blueprint paper. He had to get _something_ done today.

The studio was busy and full of cabinetmakers and artisans, all occupying separate tasks—blueprinting, planning, framing, and finishing the unique breed of woodwork made at Foster Designs. 'Functional Art' was what Foster liked to call it—making everyday items and furniture artistically. End tables with spiralled legs, curved-backed chairs with big velvet seats, oval cabinets, tables with thin slabs of enormous tree trunks for table-tops, and bookcases made in every shape but rectangular filled the place in various stages of completion. The twenty or so craftsmen who worked for the studio were scattered around as they went about their business.

The packing boys were loading a table and chairs into massive wooden crates and then onto the flat bed of a truck to be shipped out to a new home. They were arguing over what would be the best way of going about it, slinging choice insults back and forth at each other, while the nervous artisan stood uneasily nearby to oversee the task. It was always unnerving to watch the packing crew handle their creations—even though they _did_ manage to get the job done, it always felt rather like they were going to drop something.

The lone secretary was spectacularly multitasking as she answered phone calls at her desk and took down notes and sorted through an incredibly complex filing system that was organized in such a way that only _she_ knew where anything was or how to misplace things so that she could find them again. The week she was sick with flu, the entire studio came to nearly a dead halt.

He looked absently out through the window near his station and saw a small figure in purple darting across the pavement and ducking back into the doctor's office. He sighed sadly—that must have been Djaq. So much for having lunch with her today; maybe tomorrow he'd get the chance. He looked at his watch and wrinkled his nose. Just past three—still almost two and a half hours before he could talk to her again.

The supervisor strode by, and he quickly went back to pretending to work. But his mind was still on the woman in the doctor's office across the road, and the next time he'd get to talk to her, and all of the things he wished he could say or do when he did.

It was already long dark by the time he climbed the four flights of stairs to his flat—the lift here hadn't been working for years and he didn't expect it would ever be fixed. He trudged up the last upward pull and arrived at the door. 406, but the '6' had come loose and now hung upside down like a '9'. He was surprised to find the door unlocked when he went to open it. He pushed in.

"Hello?" He called out tentatively.

He saw a fair head perk up from behind the low wall in the kitchen.

"Hey."

"Hi—what're you doing here? I thought you had a date tonight."

When he walked around the wall and into the kitchen, he saw the answer himself. Allan was sitting at the table in front of a pile of cotton wool, a box of bandages, and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. There was a plaster on his cheek underneath his eye and the whole right side of his face was reddened, like he'd been hit.

"Date ended early," he said sheepishly.

"I noticed," Will said. "That'll be, let's see—from the wife or girlfriend of what's-his-name, right?"

"Girlfriend. I don't fool around with married people anymore, I get vandalized that way."

Will shook his head. Allan was his oldest friend and he loved him dearly, but the man was an idiot. He was always looking for love in all the wrong places, and he had this terrible habit of going after people who were already attached. He knew Allan was bisexual—Will had known _that_ since they were in high school—but that wasn't what contributed to his piss-poor choices in love. He just acted without thinking. _Constantly._

"You've gotta stop going for people who're already involved."

"Hey, it wasn't my fault this time! I didn't know about her until she turned up unexpectedly and started throwing shit. Would you believe how dangerous high heeled shoes are?" He pointed to the cut on his cheek. "Another inch and she could've taken my eye out!"

Pause.

"Anyway, it takes two—if they've already got a boyfriend or a girlfriend, all they have to do is say 'no' to my irresistible charms. You know, as hard as that is."

"I should smack you, but you've already had your punishment today."

"Yeah, yeah—whatever."

Instead of saying anything, Will reached across the table for the containers of Chinese takeaway that were alongside the open first aid kit and picked at it with the chopsticks.

"So what about you?" Allan asked as he dug into one of the other containers.

"What _about_ me?" Will asked back suspiciously.

"You propose to your girlfriend yet?"

He choked on a noodle.

"She isn't my girlfriend!" He protested. "She's a friend—not even really that…" He looked down into the box sadly. He hated admitting that he wasn't nearly as close to Djaq as he would have liked to be.

Allan reclined in his chair. "You know, as much as I need to make some better relationship choices, that's how badly you need to grow a pair and go on a date with that woman."

Will just shrugged.

"Oh, come on—it's not like she'll say no."

Another shrug.

"Don't just shrug at me! All you've gotta do is take her hand and look her straight in the eye and _beg_ her to go out with you."

"And you think that'll work?"

"It can't _not_ work. You're just too button-cute to turn down."

He wasn't sure how much of Allan's words he believed.

o…o

0…0…0…0…0

I just love Allan, don't you? He's so cheeky. And a lot of fun. This is how I imagine Allan being in a more modern setting—it's fun to write him this way. You'll notice I tried to keep the length of this chapter sort of on the shorter side—I've posted this story in Livejournal, and they have a limit to how long an individual post can be. I hope you enjoyed the read so far! As always, I appreciate any feedback you might care to leave.

Until next time, then!


	2. By Wednesday

Here's chapter two, a chapter from Djaq's POV for those of you who wanted to get to know modern!Djaq a little better. I'm also going from posting once a week to posting twice a week—I'm so close to being finished with the whole story that I think I can merit more posts. At least, I think so.

Disclaimer: If you recognize it, chances are, I don't own it. It's the property of the BBC. Lucky bastards.

0…0…0…0…0

o…o

By Wednesday, she was already _longing_ for the weekend. It'd been a long week—too much to do, too few people to do it, and not enough hours in the day. They were missing two doctors and people were coming in by the gross for their flu shots or with winter maladies. It was promising to sleet or snow by the end of the week.

To top it all off, her favourite hypochondriac patient was back again, this time noticing numbness in his feet and jumped to the conclusion that he had French Polio. Djaq had to rack her brain and look back through memories of medical school in order to remember what the _hell_ French Polio was. It was Guillian-Barré syndrome. She'd never seen it before and she didn't know any doctor who'd _ever_ encountered it in real life. It was more likely that this patient was going to be struck by lightning upon leaving the building than it was that he actually _had_ this condition. But it was impossible to convince this man that he wasn't sick—hypochondriacs simply _wouldn't_ listen to reason. Resigned, she sent him for some tests just to get him out of her hair.

What made her days a bit easier was her daily ride on the train—to and from work. Then she could see Will again.

Seeing him and talking to him made the early morning commute more bearable and helped her promptly forget the stresses of the day in the evening. She loved it. Sometimes she'd have lunch with him and she relished those days. He was so shy, and often afraid to look at her when they spoke, but he had the loveliest eyes and the kindest smile; he was soft-spoken and gentle and terribly sweet. Some mornings, he'd bring her hot drinks during the winter and cold ones during the summer.

At first she just thought he was adorable, something pretty to look at during her train ride. She'd seen him watching her much of the time, though she pretended not to notice; after all, she had been unlucky in relationships before and hadn't had any desire for one at the time. But he was so lovely and had such beautiful sad eyes that she couldn't help but wish to know more about him. So she made the first move, sat with him and said hello first.

Since then, seeing him on the train had been the highlight of her day. She just liked talking with him, even despite his awkwardness and his shyness. He volunteered information about himself only when prodded for it, but the more she learned about him the more her affection for him grew.

She'd grown rather fond of him over the years. In truth, she was absolutely mad for him. All she wanted to do was climb into his lap and snog him; some days it was all she could do to keep from savaging him right there in front of God and everybody and the entire tube carriage. The public nudity and obscenity charges would be well worth it, she decided.

Oh, goodness, how ridiculous was she? _Very._

A year ago, there was a phone call at the clinic about a young man at the studio who'd cut his hand and could he possibly run across the road to have it seen to. She imagined she looked like a meerkat sensing danger the way she perked up and asked the receptionist for details. She looked like she couldn't be bothered about it.

"Yeah, it's some kid called…" she glanced absently down at the paper. "William. Scarlett. Heh—isn't that a funny name?"

"Hilarious. I can see to him, I'm not busy," she offered, lying through her teeth. Really, she _did_ have a patient to see, but she'd shuffle people around _everywhere_ just so she could see to Will.

"I've already got Peter on it—"

"Oh, really? Are you new to the planet? Peter doesn't do lacerations, they give him the willies. Give Peter my patient, and I will take the boy from across the road."

"I thought you said you had no patients."

"Not if you change the roster."

The woman eyed her strangely and suspiciously, and for a while she was afraid that she was going to start asking personal questions, but she changed the roster and charged her with seeing to Will and his hand.

She'd put on her best surprised face when she came into the room reading the clipboard and saw him sitting there on the table, looking even more sheepish than usual, and holding an old bloodied towel around his injured hand. If his blood hadn't already all been dripping from the laceration on his hand, he probably would have blushed. He was so embarrassed—the poor boy.

He was very calm while she sutured the wound, and she spoke to him the whole time to keep him occupied. The whole procedure took far longer than it should have because she worked so slowly—it was hardly a romantic moment in the bare and sterile room with her mask and gloves on, but it was as romantic a moment as she'd ever gotten with him. She was almost tempted to jokingly ask him if he wanted her to 'kiss it better', but she thought the better of that idea. When she asked him if there was anything else he needed, he looked as if he wanted to say something right away but censored himself. Instead, he bashfully thanked her and left the office.

How silly was she, that stitching up his hand was the most intimate thing she'd ever done with Will? That she so looked forward to seeing him every morning and evening on the train—it was either devotion, or a little bit pathetic.

But, goodness, he was obvious. The way he stared utterly doe-eyed at her and would go out of his way to do things for her all betrayed an endearingly boyish infatuation with her.

She often grew quite frustrated with him, wondering why he never said anything of his feelings to her, before she remembered that she fancied _him_ like mad and never said anything about it, either.

For all that she was coolly confident in her work, the exact inverse was true for personal matters. Her level-headedness and cool demeanour worked well for her as a physician, but not so much when it came to human interaction. She'd frightened men off before with her fierce independence, her sarcasm and brutal honesty, and the fact that her job could sometimes take over her life. Eventually, she just all together stopped trying—it was just easier that way.

Though in the past three years, she'd been increasingly—and persistently—wondering what it would be like if she tried again. With Will.

And why not? She was absolutely crazy about him, and unless her people-reading skills were wildly off, he felt the same way about her. Maybe having a boyfriend that she actually _liked_ and who wasn't a total prat would prove to be an interesting and novel experience for her. That was part of the problem, she was sure: all of the boys and men that she'd dated in the past had turned out to be absolute fucking jerks. She knew Will—and Will was the sweetest man she knew.

She was on auto-pilot, replaying the events of the train ride home in her head as she drove home through the darkened streets. She told him of her 'favourite' patient, who was so very convinced of his condition just because his feet were numb.

"It is the middle of January and it is unfathomably cold," she'd groused to him on the train. "I told him that he would be hard-pressed to find somebody whose feet _weren't_ numb."

"What happened?"

"He did not believe me, so I sent him to somebody else for tests to get him out of my hair."

"At least that's _something,_ right?" He'd asked.

She just shrugged. "For now. In two weeks, he will be back again and telling me that he has… oh, I do not know—cancer. Cancer is a favourite."

She pulled into the car park and headed out into the night air and the cold and trotted towards the building to her flat, her mind still on Will.

She loved it when he laughed. His crooked little smile and the way he closed his eyes always made her want to clamour onto him and kiss him all over his dimpled cheeks. Maybe she _should_ do it, just to see his reaction. Knowing bashful, sweet young Will Scarlett, he'd panic.

She had no idea why she was being so spineless about the whole thing. It made her crazy—nearly as crazy as Will being equally unwilling to make the first move.

The lock on her door was sticking from the cold. She had to drop her things and go do battle with the thing, heaving and shoving the door until the lock gave and the door swung open, dumping her on the tile floor on the inside of her flat.

"Oww…" she rubbed her hip. She turned and uttered colourful profanities in Arabic before she pulled her bag inside and closed the door without getting up.

She went into the kitchen to look for something to eat and then settled down in the living room in front of the massive fish tank with a sandwich.

"What do you think, Monty?" She asked.

The big head moved and those two glassy black-button eyes stared back at her with only the fringes of vague interest. Monty wasn't usually interested in her problems, but Djaq liked to pretend she was. Sometimes it helped her think when she pretended that her pet could hear her.

"It's not _nearly_ as bad as I think it is, is it?"

Silence.

"No, I do not think so."

Stare, stare.

She sighed. "You know, it is a good job that _you_ never have this problem. I would hate to see you in a state of sexual frustration. You are crabby enough as it is."

She finished her sandwich and put her dish away; she changed into her sweatpants and came back to sit in front of the fish tank once again. She hugged her knees to her chest and continued her one-sided conversation.

"Would it _really_ be that bad?"

Pause.

"Oh, good lord, I feel like I am back in high school. Should I pick up a daisy and pluck off the petals and sigh 'he loves me, he loves me not'? I am thirty-two years old—I fancy him, he fancies me. I should ask him for a drink or something since he obviously isn't going to do it. He is too shy. But… I rather like that about him." Sigh. "I like _everything_ I know about him."

Now she was starting to feel like a schoolgirl swooning hopelessly over the boy who sits across the room. She wondered what Will might have looked like when he was in school—he probably had his shirt un-tucked and his tie crooked. And his collar sticking up out of his jumper. Absolutely _adorable._

Thinking about Will as a schoolboy made her feel like a dirty old man.

"Well—_he_ is not going to do anything, and _I'm_ going to go mad. I suppose it is up to me, isn't it?"

Silence, stare. She wondered if Monty hadn't fallen asleep—it was always so hard to tell.

"Thanks for listening, Monty."

The following morning was even _colder_ and windier and the grey storm clouds overhead loomed ominously low. She amused herself and tried to keep her mind off of the cold on the platform by alternately daydreaming about Will, and watching women try to control their windblown errant skirts. She didn't really _have_ to wear scrubs to work, and she only wore them sometimes, but they were comfortable and she could wear thermal underwear underneath them. It made winter a little more tolerable.

She yawned hugely and covered her mouth with her gloved hand. She was _tired._ Sleep hadn't come easily to her last night for thinking about Will and whether or not it was even really a good idea to start anything with him—after all, what if something went horribly wrong? It wasn't as if she could simply cut him out of her life and make a clean break. They'd still see each other every day on the train. That would be awkward.

But there she was again—always thinking the absolute worst of things. She wrinkled her nose and _forced_ herself not to think that way. She hefted her bag onto her shoulder and shifted her weight to the other foot. Daydreaming was much nicer.

In her head, the fictional scene began to roll like a film. There was an empty tube carriage—her logical mind could find no reasonable explanation as to _why_ the carriage was empty, but the part of her brain in charge of fabricating the fantasy ignored the hole in the plot. It was just the two of them, alone together. Then the train stopped—a delay, or something, who cared?—and they were alone in the dark with no onlookers and no time constraints.

The daydream continued, and in her mind she leaned forward to kiss him and he wasn't too shy or backing away from her. He kissed her back—his lips were soft and gentle and his hands were warm on her arms. He reached under her shirt and scraped her back with his fingernails.

Even though the scene was just imaginary, it still made her tingle all over and excitement shoot up her spine as if his hands were really on her.

By the time the train pulled into the station, she was warm all over and her cheeks were flushed bright pink. If anybody asked, she could blame it on the cold. The air stung her ears and nipped her cheeks, so she was more than happy to crowd on board with the other passengers. And, more importantly, with Will.

She really was pathetic, she thought to herself as she looked around for him. He was easy to spot near the back of the car because he was so tall, and she quickly pushed her way through towards him. He stood up to help her plough throw and reach the seat. She accidentally-on-purpose brushed his thigh with her hand as they manoeuvred around each other to get into their seats. She ended up in the window seat and he was on the outside. He was nice and warm in contrast to the cold radiating from the window next to her.

He was dressed as he always was in a pair of worn jeans and old steel-toed boots; he was cocooned in his woolly coat through which she could see an olive-drab green sweatshirt with a screened logo from the studio where he worked on the front.

"Morning," he said once they were settled.

"Hi," she replied as she stifled a yawn.

"Tired?"

"A bit—I did not sleep well last night."

"I'm sorry."

She rubbed her eyes and shrugged. "It is nothing. I just wish I could have gone back to sleep for a few minutes."

There was a pause; she looked cautiously sideways at him as he looked back at her with a thoughtful look on his face. He wanted to say something—she knew _that_ look.

"You, um… d'you wanna nap on my shoulder for a bit?" He asked slowly, hesitatingly. He was starting to blush as he said it. "I won't mind."

The corners of her mouth curled upwards in a smile.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah—I'll wake you up before we get to the last stop, all right?"

She was glad that her heavy coat kept him from feeling her wildly thudding heartbeat as the snuggled up to him and rested her head on his shoulder. He smelled like morning shower, coffee, and well-loved clothes. She tucked her feet up and braced them against the back of the seat in front of them. The train rocked back and forth and she dozed on his shoulder.

After several minutes, he must've thought she was asleep. She felt him shift ever so gently and wondered what he was doing, but didn't want to open her eyes to check. Then he stopped. There was warmth just over her head and it took a moment before she realized that it was his breath. He was hovering over her, breathing against her hair. Then he moved again and she felt a hand on her hair as he stroked one of her plaits.

That one simple thing made her heart skip a beat and her stomach flip. It was just one little gesture, but it made her so ridiculously happy—it was absolutely the most intimate gesture there had ever been between them. He only had the courage to do it when he thought she was asleep, but it was _something._ She sighed ever so slightly and snuggled up closer to him; he stiffened under her. He breathed gently in her hair again and stroked her hair, trailing his fingers over her braid and onto her neck, raising goosebumps all over her skin.

It was sweet.

She thought about it all day at work, feeling more and more ridiculous every time she did. Losing herself in a daydream that revolved around one tiny, simple touch on a fifteen-minute train ride was distinctly juvenile and sort of embarrassing. More than ever, she'd wanted to grab him by the shirt collar and kiss him. That was an impulse she fought all the time. She couldn't help it—he just looked so _kissable._

She'd locked herself in her office and pretended to do paperwork so she could be alone with her thoughts and her fantasies.

She was up on the second floor and her office had a little window facing the front of the building, where she could look down and see the studio across the road. There was no way she could see _into_ the building, but she knew that Will was in there—hunched over a sketch or lovingly creating another work of art. She knew what his work looked like because she sometimes cruised the Foster Design's website and looked at the pictures of the artist's works. They were all fantastic, but Will's designs were her favourites—he was so talented.

Not that she ever felt it was appropriate to tell him that—it would have sounded strangely stalker-ish.

It was already long past his lunchtime by the time she managed to escape the office to grab a bite to eat, and she huddled at a table in the back of the little deli on the corner. It had been a long time since she'd gotten one of her all-too-infrequent lunches with him. She looked forward to those with a certain embarrassing over-eagerness.

Even as she saw her patients, her mind was only partially on her work. Not the best mindset in the world for a physician, that was for certain, but she couldn't help herself. She mentally scolded herself for her inattentiveness and for spending so many hours in the day fantasizing and daydreaming about fifteen minutes at the beginning and end of it. Nonetheless, she was relieved when she bid her last patient goodbye and the day was finally over.

She commandeered the staff loo so that she could quickly change out of her work clothes. Bringing a change of clothes was standard practice for her, but she normally wore long pants; today everything had been dirty and she had no choice but to bring the skirt. She wasn't even sure if she was going to wear it—after all, it would attract more attention than just Will's, all of it unwanted—but during the day she'd accidentally upended half a bottle of iodine into her lap while she was distracted with a daydream. So, the skirt it had to be.

At least she had her tights to keep from feeling _too_ terribly exposed.

It was their daily habit to walk together from the station to their respective workplaces, but for the ride home, whoever got out of work first made their way to the train and saved a seat for the other. Djaq was the first of them on the train that evening, and waited a long time for Will to board—so long that she was afraid that he might have missed the train or something. But he ran onto the train just as the doors were closing, overestimated the jump, and collided with the group of people standing against the opposite wall.

"I'm sorry—I'm _so_ sorry!" He apologized over and over again as he stepped away from the angry commuters that he'd just crushed, his face red, though whether from exertion or from the embarrassment she had no idea. He meekly walked away from them and found where she was sitting.

He had a fine sheen of sawdust stuck to his clothes and in his hair. It was unreasonably cute. She shifted her things to let him sit down.

"Nice performance," she teased. "Are you all right?"

"Fine—I'm fine. I think I scared myself."

"I think you scared _them."_

His cheeks went pink again. Then he looked down at her, and his eyes went wide and the pink went even redder.

"What?" She asked.

He swallowed hard several times, and his mouth opened a few times like he was trying to say something.

"What?"

"S-skirt," he rasped.

She kept from grinning. He'd never seen her in a skirt before, and he looked completely dumbstruck. Excellent.

Will was mostly silent and kept sneaking sideways glances at her and her legs. His cheeks were pink and he kept a white-knuckled grip on his bag. But by the time the train came to her stop twenty minutes later, she wanted to bury her face in her coat and laugh.

"Oh, hey," she turned around just as she was about to go for the doors.

"Huh?" He looked up absently, and his gaze went right to her skirt. He looked away quickly.

"Are you busy tomorrow night?"

Pause.

"What?" He squeaked in that human-chipmunk voice.

"I was wondering if you wanted to go to dinner with me tomorrow night—it is a Friday and we do not have to be anywhere in the morning. I know a nice little place not far from my flat."

Pause.

"If you do not want to, it's fine."

He looked like he was desperately trying to remember how to speak, and his mouth was hanging open.

"Will?"

He began speaking rapidly. "No! No—I mean, yes. I mean _no—_I'm not busy tomorrow, and I—I'd like to go."

He was red from blushing as he stuttered his answer, so surprised and unsure.

She smiled. "All right. Tomorrow after work, come off here with me."

The last thing she saw as she left the train was Will nodding dumbly. She waited until she was back to her flat before she leaped into the air and squealed happily.

_Finally._

o…o

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I know it's a bit of a fandom-wide cliché, but I like the idea of Djaq being very confident in herself in just about everything _but_ relationships. It makes her just that littlest bit vulnerable, since her character is so tough and resilient. Oh, and Djaq's pet, Monty, will be revealed later. If you're _really_ clever, you'll figure it out before then. Until next time—reviews are appreciated, but never demanded.


	3. Date Night

Chapter three! There's a little more Allan in this one for you Allan-fans out there. And there's a Djaq/Will date, as well! Yippee! I Thanks to everybody who's reviewed so far—especially the ones who admit to not liking AU stories. Thanks so much for giving this story a chance! It makes me super-happy.

Disclaimer: I don't claim any ownership of the characters I'm using. The BBC owns them all. I just borrow them and put them into awkward situations.

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o…o

He couldn't remember a time in his life when he was _this_ concerned with his appearance or clothes. Ever. It just wasn't like him. Normally Will was content to wear anything he picked up off the floor provided it didn't smell bad. But as he stood in front of his open closet gnawing on his fingernails and surveying his clothing, he was agonizing over what to wear tonight. He held the bath towel around his hips, fresh from the shower as he stood there quietly dripping on his bedroom carpet.

Whatever he decided on wearing, it would have to be something that would survive the whole day rolled up and bunged in a knapsack. He was going straight from work to their date, and he _certainly_ wasn't going to go in his work clothes covered in sawdust or stains. He could sneak out early and change in the back room.

He settled on the new pair of trousers that didn't have holes in them yet and the black-and-gray striped shirt. And a belt—he needed a belt. Was it supposed to match his shoes? He didn't know. He could have asked Allan, but he was afraid Allan would laugh himself sick. It didn't really matter, anyway; he'd have to wear his work boots out. At least he'd cleaned them so they were presentable, and they were warm for the cold.

Oh, no, he still had to tell Allan. He hadn't actually said anything when he came in last night, and instead came home with a rather silly smile on his face from what'd happened on the train. He couldn't _believe_ that Djaq had asked him to go out with her. It was a little backwards, but it was good that Djaq had made the first move. Again. He just hadn't the guts to do it himself.

Of course, Allan was probably going to have a laughing fit about it when he told him. That was just Allan.

He'd been shocked when she asked him—so shocked that he couldn't remember how to speak in order to answer her. Though it might have had a bit to do with the fact that he was staring at her legs the entire journey and the question had taken him aback. He'd never seen her in a skirt before, but he rather hoped that she'd make it a more common occurrence…

It was freezing rain outside and cold in the flat—the heating was never good here—and he quickly hopped out of the towel and into his work clothes. He rolled his other clothes up and put them into his knapsack before heading into the kitchen for breakfast.

"Look who's _finally_ dressed!" Allan drawled from the table. "You were standing in front of your closet longer'n most girls do!"

"Shut up," he growled as he sat down.

His friend was already up to his elbows in his morning coffee. The black eye he'd earned at the beginning of the week was fading and the cut on his cheek was healing nicely.

"So what took you so long?" Allan asked. "Not like you to worry about how to dress."

He hesitated before he answered. "I've, uh… got a date tonight."

Pause.

"What, _you?"_ He asked in apparent astonishment. "A _date?"_ His eyes were wide and he looked undeniably amused.

"Yes."

"_Really?"_

"Yes!"

"A _date?"_

"All right, Allan, I get it! You're shocked!"

"Yeah, really. Who's it with?"

"With _Djaq_ you ninny!"

"How'd you manage _that?"_

"I, uh… to be perfectly honest, she asked _me_ out."

"Of course."

"Look, I'm just not gonna be home normal time tonight, all right?"

Allan waggled his eyebrows at him cheekily. "Is that so?"

Will shifted nervously. "What?"

"Well, you know how it goes, eh? A nice dinner out in a poorly-lit restaurant watching the candlelight glint off of her silverware while you're frantically trying to keep the conversation going by coming up with topics that make you look more interesting and also manage to hide the fact that you've been mentally undressing her for the last hour, and then you take the scenic route back to the car park by way of Bournemouth in order to keep the night going as long as possible, and you kiss her goodnight but it goes on a bit and you end up going back to her place for a nightcap, and the next thing you know you're walking back to your place at around midday the next morning in yesterday's clothes with her knickers stuffed in your pocket."

Silence.

"Spoken like somebody who's been there," Will said.

"Often."

"Whatever. It's not gonna happen that way, anyway. It's just dinner."

"Way to set the bar low, there, mate."

"You actually look _forward_ to the walk of shame?"

He didn't say anything to that. He just grinned from ear to ear as only he could. After a moment he went on. "Doesn't do much good for you to tell me that—I'm not gonna be home tonight, either."

"Why not?"

"Got a date."

Will snorted into his coffee. "Aren't you still recovering from the boyfriend you broke up with on _Monday?"_

"Naw. Life's too short for that. And anyway, this time's gonna be a bit different."

"Oh, really? What makes you say that?"

He had a great big stupid smile on his face. "I don't think Sarah likes me."

Pause.

"_What?"_ He sat there, dumbfounded. His friend really was impossible to figure sometimes.

He was still grinning. "We got into an argument in the queue at the coffee place, and she slapped me. I offered to take her out to apologize."

"Yeah, that makes it pretty obvious. But tell me—I mean, I know I'm not really much into the dating world and I'm a little naïve about the whole thing, but how the _hell_ is that a good thing?"

"It's different. It's a challenge. And, you know, I _like_ a woman who can kick my ass."

Will shook his head. He loved Allan, but he was the oddest person he knew. He didn't feel like enquiring any further, so he said, "All right then, if that's what you want. Just keep your thumb on the '9' button on your mobile in case you have to ring for an ambulance tonight."

Allan smiled.

And that was that.

Will looked at the kitchen clock and then immediately sprang into panic as he realized that he was running late. He'd spent much more time than he realized trying to pick out his clothes. He grabbed his knapsack and dashed out the door. He hadn't even thought to grab an umbrella before leaving, so he walked the whole way to the bus stop through the driving icy rain.

He was nervous on the train—too nervous to nap like he normally did. He kept waiting, waiting, waiting for the train to get toe Djaq's station. He kept checking his appearance in the darkened window, like it could have changed appreciably in the twenty seconds between looks. Anticipatory pins and needles prickled in his chest more and more as the neared. He was almost too nervous to say hello to her when she sat down with him.

"Hi," she greeted him first.

His throat constricted and he could barely manage to squeak out a stuttering, "H-hello."

"Are you all right?" She asked, concerned. "You do not look so well."

"No, I'm fine. Really."

"Are you sure? Are we still on for tonight?"

"_Yes!"_ He said, quickly and a little to eagerly. "Yeah, yeah—we are. I'm fine, really."

She smiled, broad and radiant and melting his heart.

"Good," she purred.

The entire day at work, he had even _more _trouble concentrating and was even _more_ distracted than usual. The only thing that made him force himself to pay some attention to what he was doing was the fact that if he injured himself today, he wouldn't get to go out with Djaq _tonight._ He didn't want to ruin his evening with a trip to hospital with a severed limb.

But his mind was still on her, coming up with a number of permutations of the possible outcomes of the evening. He imagined what the might talk about, what they might do, and hoped that he could keep calm. Though even the most optimistic side of him couldn't fathom more than an unusually long and passionate goodnight kiss. In his mind, her lips were warm and soft—she put her arms around his neck and pressed herself to his chest while he wrapped his arms around her waist, tight and protective and crushing her to him.

She would probably be the one to start the kiss, since she'd proven to be the more bold of them and a little more apt to making the first move. Or maybe he'd start the kiss, and he'd back her into a dark doorway and kiss her as fiercely as he dared.

The daydreams were vivid, so much so that he could practically feel her warm body against his and smell her uniquely spicy-sweet scent.

He came back into the real world just in time to stop from stapling his thumb.

This was getting dangerous. He'd already chosen to do paperwork today, so the most violent physical activity he might participate in was chewing, having decided that working with tools was absolutely the _last_ thing he should be doing while he was so caught up in daydreams like this. But even _that_ proved too dangerous with far too much potential for physical harm to trust himself with it.

He sighed. It was only two; still a long, long time before tonight. He didn't know how—or _if—_he was going to make it until then.

o…o

She starting to wish she'd picked a better night than this one. It was freezing cold and it had been raining all day; by now the rain was freezing into watery sleet and the wind had picked up. The word on the weather report was that it wasn't going to let up until the end of the weekend.

She'd also been willing to put up with remarkable discomfort in the name of aesthetics. Her clothing was dark jeans and red blouse, white shirt, and fuzzy lined boots. She spent longer picking these clothes out this morning than she felt comfortable admitting, worrying about her clothes like she used to make fun of her friends for doing. When she changed after work for her date, she stood in front of the streaky fingerprint-covered mirror nailed to the back of the door for several long moments while she assessed herself.

Not bad, Djaq thought.

And then she saw Will waiting for her on the train. He looked very handsome with his hair combed and slicked back with water and in his nice clothes—this was the first time she'd seen him in anything except for his working clothes, most of which were sloppy and stained and full of holes. She liked him in his working clothes, but these were different. Different and _nice._ She liked it.

Once again, she just wanted to climb into his lap and snog him. She thought fleetingly of suggesting they just skip dinner and go right to her flat and she could let him go home again next weekend when she was finished with him.

"My car's not in the garage," she said as they left the train at her stop amid the exhausted Friday workers. "I park it up the road to avoid the craziness at the end of the day."

"Clever," he said.

"It is not far. This way."

Instinctively, she reached out and took his hand to guide him through the crowds—his hands were warm in the cold air—and she hardly realized what she was doing and didn't think anything of it until she'd propelled him out of the station and onto the pavement. Then she realized that she was holding his hand and her face prickled with heat and she dropped it quickly in favour of plunging her hands into her warm coat pockets.

"Sorry about that," she said with a nervous smile. "Sometimes it is easy to get lost in all the people."

"It's fine," he said. He was looking at the hand she'd held as if it was something special. "Don't worry about it. I'd rather not get separated from you."

He smiled and she smiled. It was awkward, but sweet.

They made their way along the wet streets, crowded under her umbrella to escape the freezing rain. They were forced to walk side-by-side and close together, and she was quietly loving it. His cheeks were going all pink from the cold and the wind, and there were flecks of sleet and snow stuck in his dark hair and clinging to his clothes. It made him look… _pretty._ She clenched her hands in her pockets so she wasn't tempted to reach up and touch his pink cheek.

She led him to the side-street where she always left her car and showed him where she'd parked. When he saw what she drove, he grinned hugely.

"You look surprised," she said.

"I dunno why, but I expected you would have something adult and sensible," he remarked.

"I suppose I should, but I like my Beetle. It's little, and cute." She patted the round top of the little black car like it was a pet.

She could swear he'd murmured, "Just like you," but she wasn't sure if she'd heard him properly and she didn't want to ask.

"I hope you fold up nicely—you may have to sit in the boot so you fit."

Will laughed a little bit. "I think I'll manage. I'm used to being too tall for things."

She'd worried—indeed, sort of _expected—_that their dinner would be awkwardly quiet, with neither of them feeling quite brave enough to do anything more than their usual morning train ride conversation. And for a while it was, and she kept trying to steer the conversation to territory that would make him a bit more talkative. Eventually, she found something, and the floodgates opened.

"I don't suppose I ever really wanted to do anything else. I've always done woodwork, ever since I was a kid."

"Sounds like a funny hobby for a small boy," she remarked. "How did you get into it to begin with?"

"Well, my dad did woodwork all the time when I was younger. You could say he made an impression on me. He called it 'making sawdust'. Used to bring me into the shop with him to be his little gofer as soon as I was big enough to carry things. As soon as I was old enough to be trusted with a hammer, I was making things. We had a wood shop in the basement," he recalled with a smile. "Mum hated it. She said that having a shop down there kept her from being able to have a washer and tumble dryer." Pause. "That's one of the only things I remember about her."

She knew that his mother was gone—it came up in conversation once, _very_ briefly, some time ago, for which she felt incredibly guilty—but she didn't know any details beyond that. She _wanted_ to know, but didn't dare press it. It wasn't appropriate. "I am sorry," she said.

"Don't be. It was a long time ago—it wouldn't've been much of a life for her if she'd lived."

Nod. She knew that—it was all about quality of life. After a few second's pause, she tentatively asked, "How old were you?"

"I was seven. Guess that makes me lucky," he said. "I remember some things about her—my little brother doesn't really remember anything since he was so young. All he knows is what we tell him. Though… I guess it's all right, since he doesn't remember how sick she was."

He looked down into his partially empty plate, and for a moment she wondered if perhaps she hadn't caused some lasting emotional trauma by bringing it up.

"What about you?" He asked. "I've never heard you talk about your family—except your uncle."

"That would be because I do not talk to them anymore," she said in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Why not?" He asked, astonished. It seemed like he couldn't fathom a circumstance under which somebody might cut their family from their life.

"Because they were… _toxic,"_ she said, spitting the last word out like it burned. "You might say we did not get on very well."

"What happened?"

"Are you _sure_ you want to hear about it?"

"Sure I do—it's _you—"_ he stopped and cut himself off, blushing pink and looking away. Then he began again slowly, "I just… I'm interested in you."

She grinned slightly. He was _sweet._ "Well," she began. "My family were very traditional. There was always a set pattern of behaviour for good little Muslim girls, and I did not fit into that pattern no matter _what_ they did."

"What sort of pattern?"

She sighed. "Oh, all sorts of things. Good little Muslim girls are not supposed to be argumentative or independent. Good little Muslim girls are not supposed to have high ambitions and they are not wilful." She wrinkled her nose in distaste at the memories of all of the fights she'd had with her father and the family of patriarchs, even with her _brother,_ who was once on her side but had grown apart from her as he grew older. She had been completely different from her family.

"What _do_ good little Muslim girls do, then?" He asked.

"They do as they are told. They go into professions suitable for women and then leave them as soon as they get married, which they do young, and then immediately start popping out babies. _Boy_ babies."

He snorted; the couple at the table next to them looked over at him with looks of distaste on their faces.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to laugh," he said. "It just sounds… funny."

"How so?"

"Because that's _nothing_ like you. At all."

"I know. I suppose it is a bit funny, but you did not have to live it. I spend much of my life gnashing at the bit. I was… I was so lucky to have my uncle take me in."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"No, do not apologize. It is all right. We have known each other a long time and we do not know much about each other."

"True," he said. "So… did you always want to be a doctor?"

"Not really," she said. "I know some people say when they are seven years old that they want to be doctors and stay with it, but I don't think that I really thought much about it until I was older."

"How much older?"

"Not until after I came to live with Bassam—my uncle. I was fifteen."

"Was it his idea?"

"No. He just wanted me to be happy, which is more than anybody else ever wanted of me. I don't think I really knew _where_ I wanted my life to go before then—I just wanted to be out of my father's house. Medicine sounded like an interesting thing, and distinctly un-good-Muslim-girl-like—blood and diseases and naked people and all."

He raised his eyebrows. "So you chose your profession out of rebellion?"

"I suppose you could say that. It worked out well in the end, though, because I love what I do."

They went on and on. They talked for _hours, _and they covered… _everything._ The conversation went from their jobs to their families, to their friends, to their school years, recounting stories from years past and amusing each other with them, and learning everything they'd ever wanted to know about one another. Anything they hadn't learned through three years of brief conversations during commutes, which in fact was a lot.

She learned for the first time about his father and his brother, and the eccentric aunt who'd lived with them since his mother died. She sounded like a character right out of _Auntie Mame,_ and it made Djaq laugh until she had to lean on the table to keep from collapsing into her tomato soup. He talked about Allan, the friend he'd known for most of his life—she hadn't known that their friendship was so strong. For all she'd ever known, Allan was just a roommate that he got on very well with.

She didn't have quite as many colourful characters in her life, but he still hung on her every word when she spoke. The new lack of shyness surprised even _her;_ she had no idea whether because she was crazy about him or because she was just flat-out tired of being unsure of herself or _what._

It was _hours_ that they sat there, leaning across the table, and chatting over their cold coffee while their waiter was standing in the corner and alternately shooting them dirty looks and looking at his watch. They were his last customers of the night, and he couldn't leave until they did. Normally, she would have felt quite badly about it, but she was so absorbed in her date that she couldn't find it in herself to care.

When the waiter's nasty looks and loud throat-clearing became too much to ignore, they left the restaurant and walked out into the shockingly cold night air. It had stopped raining, but the ground was covered everywhere in a dangerous sheet of invisible ice. They had barely taken three steps onto the pavement when Will slipped quite spectacularly and had to grab onto a post box for dear life to keep from falling.

She took his arm and tried to help him, but she was giggling helplessly at his misfortune and couldn't hold him up.

They took the longest and slowest route back to the car park—neither of them wanted to part company and go home, so they braved the cold and the dark and the wind and the ice to enjoy each other's company as long as possible. Her hands were numb and she was shivering and she noticed that his teeth were chattering as he talked before they finally relented and—slowly and very, very reluctantly—went back around to find her car.

o…o

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Awe, how sweet. Djaq and Will on a date! They're especially sweet when they take the long way back to her car so they can stay together as long as possible. Poor Djaq is probably going to explode though—she just wants to jump on Will and ravage him! But you can't really blame her, can you? I wonder why she didn't ask him out sooner.

Anyway, enough chat. Look for the next update right on schedule. Leave feedback if you feel like it—it's always good to hear what works and what doesn't.


	4. Riding in Cars

I finally finished writing the story! From here on out, it's just a matter of proofreading and posting the chapters. Woohoo! This chapter is a little longer than the previous chapters, but that shouldn't surprise anybody. I should also warn for a little bit of citrus in this chapter. It's not smut by any stretch of the imagination, but it's more than just fluff. Just to give you a warning in case you have a nosy friend or boss or teacher or whomever that you'll have to hide the window from. I don't think there's anything objectionable in this chapter, but if anything more than a bit of kissing and groping irks you, you may want to bypass this chapter.

Disclaimer: The BBC owns the Robin Hood characters, not me. I just borrow them and make them do filthy things with each other.

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o…o

The plan had been to drive Will back to the station so that he could go home. Neither of them had expected anything to come of _that—_certainly nothing bad or dodgy could come of it, and it was innocent and innocuous enough not to merit any worry.

But the roads were icy and perilous, and she had no traction in her car and kept sliding along the ground, dangerously fishtailing. The conditions were poor, raining and dark, and they kept scaring each other whenever the car slipped and they each had the same terrified reaction.

After nearly wrecking once again, she pulled off on an empty stretch of road to calm herself down. His heart was pounding and he was sitting rigidly in his seat like a terrified roller coaster passenger, and Djaq had a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. She looked just as frightened as he felt.

"Are you all right?" He asked, worried.

"Fine. I think. Just… frightened myself. You?"

"I'm fine."

Pause. She was breathing shakily.

"I hope you don't mind if we stop here for a bit," she panted. "At least until I have calmed down."

"No, not at all," he replied with a weak half-smile. "That's probably best."

There were no other cars on this part of the road as they sat there. He watched her out of the corner of his eye while she sat in the driver's seat. But she probably wouldn't have noticed if he was blatantly staring at her. He was sort of happy that they _had_ stopped. It was just a morsel more time to be with her—even if they _were_ just waiting out a storm on the side of the road.

He didn't want to go home or say goodbye. It would mean that it was over, and the night had come to an end. He'd've gladly stayed out in the cold in the car park, risking frostbite, if it meant he could enjoy her company a little while longer.

He'd learned more about her tonight than he had in the last three years put together. And he liked her all the more for it—she was wickedly clever and she made him laugh, she was fiercely independent and smart. He thought he must've had a very silly expression on his face all through dinner while he sat there staring dreamily across the table at her. Just staring and swooning.

There was no two ways about it—he was just hopelessly, stupidly in love with her.

Even though he thought Allan was ridiculous for flitting from one relationship to another so much, he knew he was infinitely sillier in his love for Djaq. And he couldn't even tell her.

He wished that he could just _tell her_ how he felt, in the unlikely event that she hadn't already figured it out for herself, or that he could do something impulsive and reach across the car and kiss her like he'd been dying to do all night.

Been dying to do for _three years._

He hadn't realized that he was unconsciously leaning to the side to get closer to her. Like he was determined to take in all of her and commit it all to memory. She was nice and warm. She wasn't wearing perfume, but she smelled good. She was terribly pretty.

He was over the centre console before he noticed just how close he really was; he could see his own breath stirring her hair and he could actually see the pulse point in her neck—he wanted to lean in and kiss it. Did she know he was there? Was she pretending not to notice? He couldn't tell.

He was even closer when he saw that she was holding her breath.

Suddenly, she turned and looked him in the eye and he forgot how to breathe. He couldn't even begin to guess what she was thinking, what was going on behind those big black eyes. Did she think he was a creep? Was she nervous? He could feel as she released her breath into his neck, tickling him. Goosebumps rose up all over his body and a chill went up his spine.

Then… he didn't know what came over him. She was just so gorgeous and tempting and she was _right there_ and it was all he wanted to do. For the first time in his life, he did something without thinking about it. The seatbelt off, a hand on her cheek, he leaned the rest of the way towards her and kissed her.

For a split second he thought he was just having another one of those very vivid daydreams—her lips were soft and she was just beginning to kiss him back before he remembered this was _real,_ and balked and backed away quickly.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I'm—I didn't mean to—I should have asked or… something…" he couldn't get a full sentence out. He could barely string two syllables together without stuttering. His face burned. His cheeks fizzled. He felt so embarrassed. Why had he done that?

He couldn't look at her.

"I shouldn't have done that," he said weakly.

"Yes you should. Come back here and do it again."

Before he could fully process the words, her hand was back on his neck and she'd pulled him back to her again.

She kissed him first this time, climbing out of her seat and into the centre of the car to get closer to him. It surprised him. She wasn't angry? Didn't she want to just slap him? But no, she _wasn't_ cross. It seemed exactly to the contrary…

Her small, cool hand was on his cheek and the other was still against the back of his neck and kept him from going anywhere. Not that he wanted to. She kissed him eagerly, with fervour—he recovered quickly from his surprise and kissed her back. He clung to her, unwilling to part from her even to breathe. She opened her mouth, let him explore as much as he liked. When he pushed gently against her to lean her backwards, she pushed right back. She was being aggressive, passionate, rough.

Finally, he had to pull away. But she wouldn't let him and followed him until he was backed up against his door and she could no longer reach him. She whimpered softly, leaning all the way across the car's centre console and holding herself up on her hands on the edge of his seat. Her hair had become mussed and the tie from one plait was missing. Her bright red blouse was open and revealed the white tank she wore underneath it. Her lips were wet and her mouth was slightly open as she breathed heavily, and she implored him with those big eyes as he tried to pull himself together.

She was _unreasonably_ alluring like that. Now, more than ever, it was incredibly hard for him to resist her.

She gently bit her lower lip but didn't move forward. She wasn't entirely sure what he was doing. Why had he stopped? Was it nerves, or… something else? Normally she might have been able to work it out herself, but her head was too foggy and full of sex and Will to be able to read him.

Finally, she managed to speak.

"Don't apologize," she whispered. "Please don't."

"I shouldn't—" he began, but she didn't let him finish.

"Stop!" She said sternly. She wasn't about to let him _apologize_ for _kissing her back_ when she was the one who started the kiss to begin with.

He closed his mouth and looked properly scolded. She took his shirt collar in one hand and pulled him back to her. He didn't resist.

It was now or never, she figured. Just tell him, get it over with. What did she expect was going to happen? If anything, he'd _finally_ understand.

Oh, but it was so difficult. Her heart was pounding hard and fast against her ribs like it wanted to escape; her breathing was shaky, and she was sure that her trembling was noticeable. She tried to calm herself down by breathing deeply, but it didn't do much to help.

Her mouth felt paper-dry when she tried to speak, but that didn't matter because she couldn't think of any words to say. How was she supposed to say it, anyway? She hadn't given this a great deal of thought.

She felt him come forward again and place a gentle little kiss on her lips. She squeaked in surprise. Then she looked up into those beautiful green eyes.

"I'm in love with you."

The words hung in the air between them, lingering long after they were spoken.

"I shouldn't say it, I know," he continued. "I know it sounds weird, or stupid, but it's true. I'm crazy about you, and I have been for a long time."

Her heart stopped pounding fiercely and began to flutter in her chest like an excited bird. Had she just heard that correctly? Or had she just slipped into a parallel universe? It seemed so unlike Will to say something like that, something so frank. But he had. It was what she had been dying to hear him say. She heard it echoing again and again in her head.

And then she realized she wasn't saying anything at all, which would be taken as a very bad sign indeed to him.

"Really?" was the only thing she could think to say. She fought the urge to smack herself in the forehead—_idiot._

He was starting to look frightened and nervous again and sat back away from her.

"I just meant—"

She grinned, and he stopped talking and swallowed hard. She kissed his nose and he froze all together.

He was… adorable. She couldn't resist it—she climbed awkwardly across the car to get closer to him so she could kiss him again. She hit her thigh on the brake lever and caught her knee in one of the cup-holders and nearly got stuck in the gap next to his seat, but she didn't break the kiss until she'd backed him all the way against the opposite door and was practically sitting in his lap. His face was flushed and his hair rumpled, but he didn't look scared anymore.

"Does this mean you don't think it's weird?" He rasped.

"It's possible it means that I feel the same way."

"Wait, what?"

She kissed his cheek. "I kept hoping you might notice one day, but you do not make the first move. _Ever."_

"I did just now," he offered sheepishly.

"Mm, yes. That you did," she said with an amused tone to her voice. As if to prove a point, he wrapped his arms tight around her. She delighted in this roughly passionate kiss and the way he fisted a hand in her shirt and tugged her hair.

She whined gently and wound her arms around his neck. She gave him another push, made him back up again; he twisted to lay flat and growled as he tried to reposition himself to keep from getting stabbed with the car's gearshift. She kissed him just as roughly as he had, bit his lower lip—he startled and backed into the car door. He hit his head on the window and startled himself. There was a mark on the glass where he'd hit.

"Ow!" He rubbed the back of his head.

She sat up and looked down at him. He was sitting awkwardly, partially off the seat, contorted around the gearshift and brake lever in the middle of the car. He couldn't possibly have been comfortable. She sat up, careful not to kick him or bump him, and tried to shift herself between the front seats into the back.

"Where are you going? What did I—?"

"Back here," she commanded in a stern voice, reaching through the seats to grab him by the front of his shirt to drag him back with her.

"_Hurk!"_ He grunted in apparent surprise at her strength as she pulled him. Then he clamoured over the front seats, a much harder task to accomplish for Will and his lanky form and his too-long legs. He squeezed through, but left a boot in the front seat.

She giggled.

When he looked back at her, his eyes went wide. She'd stripped off her blouse while he was struggling with the front seat, and the white shirt underneath it was just a shade less than translucent and he could probably see the vague outline of her bra. She could swear she'd heard him gurgle.

He sat there, frozen in place, between the front and back seats.

"Please don't back away," she said softly. She hardly even recognized the pleading tone in her own voice.

"This is… fast," he croaked. His face was brilliantly bright red.

The frustration was incredible—she almost wanted to scream. The words spilled out of her unbidden, unfiltered. "Oh for goodness sake—we are adults, not teenagers! We are adults who are mad about each other, and I am harbouring three years worth of pent-up sexual frustration. I am in danger of exploding—bits of me will rain down as far away as Calais!"

When she realized what had just come out of her mouth, she covered it with her hands. She couldn't _believe_ she'd just said that—what had gotten into her? Saying something like that was probably enough to put him right off of her. She felt her face heat up as she began to blush.

Will pulled himself up onto the long back seat with her. When she saw him there, grinning hugely, she realized she hadn't frightened him. And then he began to laugh, as did she, and for a few seconds, the moment was delightfully light-hearted and silly. Then she pulled him back against herself as she lay backwards to continue; he was too tall to stretch out on the seat as he hovered over her, half on the seat and half on the floor.

They dissolved once again into kisses as he awkwardly shifted from one position to another trying to get comfortable in the small car. She kissed him again and again and again, on his lips and all over his pink cheeks; he kissed all the way up the side of her neck, gently nipped her earlobe and planted feather-light kisses under her ear before claiming her lips again and repeating the whole process.

Her limbs went all weak and watery, barely able to hold her body up. She felt warm and tingly all over, hot excitement bubbling over in her stomach, an eager prickling growing in her chest, the warmth between her thighs growing almost unbearably hot. Instinctively, she rolled her hips against his, and a low strangled moan escaped her lips; he growled against her neck, sending reverberations through his lips to her throat.

Her breath came short and her heart was pounding fast. He, too, was panting—she could feel his breath nice and warm on her heated skin. When she kissed his neck, she could feel his pulse come rapidly against her lips. She groaned again. It was all so exhilarating and exciting and delectably illicit. They shouldn't have been doing this, it was wrong and it was bad, but it was _far_ too good to want to stop.

She put one leg over his hip and ground her hips into his again, just to get even closer. He moaned her name, and it was the most wonderful sound she'd ever heard. His eyes were closed and he was trembling as he held himself up on shaking arms over her.

A thought occurred to her, vague and foggy but persistent through the haze of hot kisses and warm hands and indiscriminate groping. But it was an important enough thought that she tore her mouth away from his and tried to get his attention.

"Will."

Instead of looking up, he turned his attention back to her neck, mouthing kisses down the delicate skin, tracing her collarbones with his lips, working his way down to her shoulders. He went for the hem of her shirt, hiking it up further and further and exploring the newly exposed flesh with his hands. He ghosted his fingers down her sides and she trilled and squirmed. It tickled, and nearly made her want to forget about talking and continue on.

"Will," she tried again, but he didn't hear her.

He'd pushed her shirt up further, up over her chest, and was fumbling with the clasp on her bra with some great difficulty, voicing little whimpers and growls of frustration as he struggled with it.

She tried one last time. _"Will!"_

This time, apparently, she got through and he stopped. When he looked up, his eyes were all glazed over. His hair was mussed and disarrayed from where she'd dragged her hands through it. There was a few second's pause while his mind switched gears.

"Whuhn?"

He looked so out of it that she couldn't help but laugh softly.

"Hold on a moment," she said.

"Huh?" He sat up a little bit. "What for?"

She took a deep breath. "If we do this, there is no going back."

He stared blankly. She didn't know if he was getting any of this, but she continued.

"We cannot go back to being just two acquaintances on a train after this. I couldn't go back to that—could you?"

"No," he said. "I couldn't. I wouldn't _want_ to." He reached up and stroked her hair where one of her plaits had come undone.

"Everything will change."

"I know. I want it to."

She wanted to make absolutely sure that there were no hesitations and no reservations on his end. "All you need to do is say the word, and we can stop right here, and we go back to the way things have always been."

There was another pause. He was looking at her with those gorgeous green eyes and she couldn't even begin to guess what was going through his head. He stayed there for what seemed like a very, _very_ long time but in fact was probably less than half a minute.

He moved, leaned his head low and breathed hotly in her ear, "Never. This is what I want—_you."_

Then, as if the punctuate this point, he kissed her again, deep and hot and sweet, crushing her mouth to his.

"Good," she whispered.

And that was it.

He went back to the troublesome bra strap with a renewed, urgent fervour. He scratched at it, unable to summon the dexterity necessary to unfasten it. He was so desperate that she just had to laugh again. When he leaned forward and grasped the front of the garment in his teeth, she squeaked and pushed him back.

"Don't rip it!"

He stopped.

"Just wait," she said, pushing herself up. She snaked her arms back behind her and easily unfastened the clasp herself. It wasn't hard—she could do it behind her back. What was it about a bra strap that was so incredibly complicated that men couldn't undo them? The clasp unfastened, she pulled the white lacy garment off and let it fall to the floor. Thank goodness for strapless, she thought.

Her top was still pulled up and bunched under her arms, her chest exposed. She lay perfectly still while he studied her carefully, a look of wonder on his face.

He cupped one breast in his hand and teased it gently. A pleasurable jolt shot through her body, and she purred and pulled him down to kiss him—she could never get enough of his kisses. He slid his tongue along the pad of her lower lip; she opened her mouth and nipped his tongue. He bit her right back, and then deepened the kiss. His hands were still exploring her bare skin, joined by his mouth as he moved down to lavish kisses on her chest.

It felt… _too_ good. Her muscles failed her as she went boneless there beneath him on the seat.

She tried to toe her boots off without kicking him, and when she was finally freed, she quickly unfastened the button and zip on her trousers. Getting out of her pants proved vastly more difficult than she'd have thought. She could only drag them down so far before her arms could go no further. Though, realistically, she probably didn't _have_ to take them down the _whole way._ Just enough so that he could—

As she was trying to take her pants the rest of the way down without kneeing him, his hands joined hers. He pulled the clothing down further than she could reach, stopping once to study her face briefly and make sure she wasn't protesting before dragging them off all together and tossing the jeans onto the floor.

Now she was almost completely naked. She pulled her bunched and wrinkled white tank over her head and discarded it, too, so the only thing standing between Djaq being bare in front of Will was her flimsy pair of knickers. The car was cold, and she shivered now that she was exposed. She was covered all over in goosebumps and her nipples peaked in the cold. Her stomach fluttered as he looked her up and down slowly with an almost predatory expression. When he unconsciously licked his lips, a pang of excitement went through her and her breath caught in her throat.

He was still staring, staring—part of her was enjoying this awed attention, but the more impatient part of her wanted him to snap out of it and get on with things. So she reached up to begin unbuttoning his shirt with trembling fingers. Her nimble doctor's hands made quick work of the buttons and he looked almost shocked to find his shirt open and being pulled off of him.

"Off," she growled. "Come on, hurry up!"

He laughed at her impatience, leaning down and pecking her on the lips before stripping off his shirt and undershirt and flinging them carelessly across the car. He paused for a few minutes, and she drank in the sight of him. He was so fair-skinned, more than anybody else she'd ever seen, and she found it lovely. He was well-built and muscled all over from years of carpentry and woodwork, but he was still slight and thin. And beautiful.

There was a black mark on his chest, just above his heart: a tattoo. It was a small hammer and an axe crossed over one another, above the name 'Hephaistos'—Hephaestus, the ancient Greek god of smiths and artisans. She traced it with her fingers, feeling his muscles go taught under her touch.

"You do not seem the type to have a tattoo," she remarked.

"I'm full of surprises," he said back. He pecked her cheek, and she giggled. "I like to think someone's looking out for me and my absent-mindedness."

She hummed softly and kissed the tattoo. Her lips lingered on the spot, feeling his heart beat.

He rose up to unfasten his belt, but did it a little too quickly and banged his head on the ceiling. He yelped, hunched back over, and covered his head with his arms.

"Are you all right?" She asked, reaching up to touch his face.

"Ow—yes. Ow."

"Shall I kiss it and make it better?"

He looked at her through narrowed eyes, but he was still grinning widely. "Don't tease."

"As a doctor, I can tell you that it is an effective treatment."

When he brought his hands down from his head, she pulled them closer together until she could kiss the top of his dark head.

"Better?"

He grinned. "Much."

She pulled him down and mouthed down his long neck to his chest. Devilishly, she flicked her tongue against the base of his throat and along his collarbones, hearing him groan softly as she went. His breathing quickened, and he mirrored her actions with his own.

Desperation overtook them as their kisses grew more frantic, their hands going all over one another. Her hands went over his chest and stomach in an effort to memorize every ridge and contour of his muscles; he stroked his fingernails down her waist and thighs, then back up again. He fondled her breasts—his hands were warm and callused and deliciously rough. Goosebumps rose up all over her body.

She held him flush against her, his chest pressed against hers. She arched into him and rolled her hips. The contact was electrifying. Her hands tangled in his hair and she was short of breath as he lipped her neck and her chest, making her shiver enjoyably.

He moved lower, showering hot and ticklish little kisses all over her as he went, all down her chest and stomach to her navel, where he stilled. His hands rested on his hips, his fingers moving along the elastic waist of her knickers, and for an agonizingly long time he didn't move at all. She began to tremble with nerves and anticipation, but he still didn't go any further. Finally, she grew impatient and wriggled out of the garment herself. It took a few seconds for him to realize she was naked.

She sat up on her elbows so she could see him and gauge his reaction. He looked completely awed.

"Well?" She prodded gently, a sly grin on her face.

He looked slowly up and down her body, his mouth slightly agape, until his eyes once again rested on hers. He looked like he wanted to say something, but all that came out was a squeak and a gurgle. That reaction was more telling than if he'd said anything outright.

She began to giggle despite herself, but he was quickly back up to her lips again, devouring her giggles and her startled yelps as he kissed her fiercely. She could feel his warm, sweaty skin on hers, to where his jeans sat low on his hips and she felt the coarse denim fabric on her naked body. Oh, god, she desperately, _desperately_ wanted him. Her head spun and blood rushed in her ears. Her brain was lustily fogged up and she could think about nothing except _Will._ He was warm and soft in her arms, and he smelled like wood and clean clothes and a tinge of heady passion.

She pulled one leg over his hip and tangled the other between his legs and crushed herself to him as close as humanly possible. She had to have all of him—everything. She deepened their kisses, took his tongue into her mouth. He groaned low in his throat and ground his hips into hers. She gasped in pleasure and nearly came right on the spot.

He kissed her breathless, making her dizzy. More Will, more kisses, more touch—that's all she was thinking about.

The words very nearly burst from her lips between frenzied kisses. _"I love you."_ She wanted to say it, so badly wanted to tell him how she felt. But she couldn't make the words go any further than her throat—possibly because of nerves, because she was unsure of herself, or because she didn't want to frighten him. Will would frighten easily, she figured. So she kept the words to herself, and instead wrapped her arms around him and covered his mouth with hers and kissed him deeply again.

He stopped only to drag open his belt and she quickly unbuttoned his jeans. He nearly hit his head again when he rose to pull them off, jerked to the side, and fell onto the floor.

He looked confused as to how he'd ended up on the floor, his pants still around his knees. Laughing, she crawled along the seat so she was level with his face. He tried to pull himself up, stumbling with his long legs caught in his jeans. When he began to struggle frustratedly, she laid a gentle hand on his chest and kissed his forehead.

"Hush," she whispered.

She tugged his jeans off in one swift, fluid motion and flung them over the front seats. They landed on the long dashboard. He was left only in his shorts now, tented in the front from his erection; he pulled himself up off the floor and back onto the seat, rolling over so he was on top of her. He pulled her hands up to either side of her head and pinned her wrists there. Her heart leapt. His gaze was so intense and fiery that it made her breath catch in her throat.

He tried to pull his last article of clothing off without relinquishing their close contact, exposing the last of his bare skin to her bit by delicious little bit. She wrapped her legs around his waist and squeezed him with her legs. He gasped raggedly.

Eventually, he relented and stripped his shorts off all at once, which were also then carelessly discarded. This was it—no going back now. He stilled again, holding himself up over her so that their bodies were just barely in contact. Slowly, carefully, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her neck. It was the lightest little touch, but it sent chills up her spine and she groaned low in her throat. She could feel her own arousal, slick and hot between her thighs, growing even hotter as the seconds slipped by.

She just wanted to have him. Right _now._

Even as she was growing remarkably impatient, she found his flushed face and his obvious nervousness rather endearingly sweet. She wanted to say something to reassure him, but she couldn't come up with anything that didn't sound hopelessly schmaltzy. Telling him 'You're absolutely gorgeous' would be completely true, but it'd sound a little funny.

Then he reached down and touched her, and she stopped thinking all together.

She arched her back and jerked her pelvis into his tentatively exploring fingers, trying to encourage him. Her heartbeat quickened and her breathing became shallow and fast. Her enthusiastic sounds and actions egged him on a little further at a time. The pit of her stomach burned pleasurably as he stroked her.

And then he stopped, and she wished that his meant he was going to get on with it and finish the deed. But she was dismayed that he flung himself between the seats into the front, grabbing for his trousers—she wanted to pinch his cute little butt wedged between the front seats. Instead, she sat up and frowned at him. She was growing ridiculously impatient, and would pounce on him if he didn't come back here.

"What are you _doing?"_ She demanded in frustration.

He was digging into his jeans pockets. "Condom," he croaked.

Silence. If she hadn't been so anxious to _get on with it,_ she'd have been impressed that he'd stopped to think about it. Not many men did when they were caught in the moment like this.

"Are you clean?" She asked, referring to any diseases.

He looked over his shoulder. "Yes…"

"Good—so am I. We needn't bother."

Another pause. "Birth control?"

"I have an IUD."

He stared at her for a long time as the realization of what she'd just said dawned on him. Then he threw the clothing down and she laughed heartily as he leaped back onto the back seat with her.

In the next moment he plunged into her, and nothing else in the world mattered anymore.

o…o

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_Finally!_ They did it! After three years of sighing and swooning and pining for one another, they get their lovin'. I'm not sure how likely it'd be that either of them would be so willing to have sex on a first date, but after all those years of pent-up sexual frustration, you can hardly blame them. Anyway, Djaq always knows exactly what she wants and will go out and take it—and in this case, she wants Will. In her back seat. Interestingly, this premise—that is, a tall guy like Will Scarlett having sex in the back seat of a ridiculously small car—is what spawned this whole story to begin with. The potential for humour was almost endless. (And as somebody who drives a VW Beetle, I can vouch for the tininess of my back seat.) I hope you enjoyed the read. Reviews are appreciated, but never demanded.

As another note, this might be my last post until next week. What with Giftmas and all the madness it entails just around the corner, I anticipate real life getting in the way of fanfic. If I forget to post, I apologize ahead of time! In the meantime, Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!


	5. Saturday

Here's chapter five! It's a lot of cuteness and fluff, which was fun to write. I'm posting early this week because a) I missed Friday, and b) I've been house-sitting for the last two weeks and tomorrow I'm cleaning up the house and moving out, which could take all day and I might not have time to post.

Disclaimer: Will Scarlett and Djaq are not my property, no matter how many times I bribe the BBC. Damn!

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o…o

The first thing Will became aware of upon waking was warmth—he was comfortably warm and cozy and covered with a big heavy blanket, hugging a warm pillow to his chest.

That _dream—_what a dream! He'd dreamed that he and Djaq had gone out and then, for some reason, they'd kissed a bit in her car when she stopped the weather the storm, and it went even further and then… then they'd… and then they went back to her flat and did it again, _three times._ Oh god—that part of the dream was incredibly vivid. He could still hear her groan and pant, hear her sigh his name, feel her soft warm skin under his body and hands and…

It all felt so very, _very_ real.

Dreaming about her wasn't unusual for him, but it was odd for the dream to be quite so _pornographic._ Normally he couldn't get much further than a snog and a bit of a fondle before he became too nervous and uncertain to go further—even in his dreams he didn't have the guts to do anything.

This dream was different. She'd admitted she felt the same for him that he did, that she was just as crazy about him. That alone would have been enough to make him happy all the next day, but it went on from there. He'd kissed her feverishly and hotly and she encouraged him and coaxed him along further. Perhaps the oddest thing about the dream was that she stopped him briefly to offer to stop, warned him that things would change forever. This didn't matter to him at all, either in his dream or in reality; he _wanted_ things to change. He wouldn't want to forever be no more than casual friends with her. Why in the world would his subconscious put _that_ in there? It seemed more like something Djaq would actually say, and not something his dream-self would come up with.

And even in his _dream_ the sex was fantastic. She wouldn't be his first lover, but if he ever did sleep with her and she was half as good as she was in his dream, she'd be the _best._ She'd rolled him over and taken control and done things that made his eyes roll back into his head. She was beautiful and sexy and clever and _perfect._

Too bad it was just a dream, he thought absently. He had to stop having these dirty Djaq dreams before he went absolutely crazy.

It was then that he noticed that he wasn't in his own room.

He wasn't in his _flat._

He sat up abruptly and looked around the unfamiliar room. The walls were painted a pale purple colour around a myriad of posters and pictures hung up everywhere—old movie posters, band posters, photos, and medical diagrams. There was a laptop on a cluttered desk at the foot of the bed. The big windows were covered with heavy curtains, blacking out the sun and keeping the room dark. There were clothes slung over chairs and scattered around the floor, open books and scribbled notes, and stray shoes all over the place. Quite messy, and lived-in.

Then he turned to the side and realized that the warm weight draped over his chest wasn't a pillow.

It was Djaq.

His eyes went wide and the memory of last night returned in a rush. It wasn't a dream. It was _real._ He remembered it all.

After they'd made love, they dozed a while there in her car, wrapped in coats and clothes and a blanket she kept in the car. The worst of the storm was passed, and they decided that it was probably best to get dressed and get going, lest they be discovered sleeping off their orgasms in the back seat by a policeman.

"Wait—where are we going?" He'd asked her, as he struggled to pull his jeans back on.

"Well, the way I see it, we have two options," she said. She was already in the front seat, having put some clothes back on, but she was hardly _dressed_—she'd put her knickers and tank top and her boots back on and her coat on over top of it, and shoved the rest of her clothes into her bag.

"Which are… what?"

"I can drive you to the station, and you can go home," she offered.

He didn't like the sound of that idea.

"Or?"

"Or…" she'd grinned here and traced a finger across his lips before she pecked him softly. "We can go back to my flat, and you can go home when I am finished with you."

He remembered the way she said those words, the seductive tone and the wicked glint in her eyes and her fingers tracing feather-light down his bare chest, and it had sent a tingle of excitement down his spine.

"And when will that be?" He breathed against her mouth.

"Oh, no more than a month or so."

He'd laughed and kissed her again, then clamoured into the front seat. She'd known his answer without him having to say anything, and she took him home with her.

They hardly made it up to her flat, and the door wasn't even closed before she'd pounced on him again.

He'd been incredibly nervous at first, wanting to do everything right and to please her without irrevocably fucking things up, which would be grounds for immediate emigration. But he slowly grew more confident with himself, and from what he could gather, she was more than happy with him.

And now there she was, sleeping there beside him with her head on his shoulder and one arm flung across his abdomen. There _he_ was, in _her_ bed in _her_ flat. It seemed too good to be true.

Slowly and carefully, he reached towards her and stroked her hair, loose and disarrayed and partially covering her face. She snuggled closer into him and murmured incomprehensibly in her sleep. He leaned forward and kissed her gently on the forehead.

He brought his hand down her neck and traced his fingers along the dip in her spine, all the way down to her buttocks. He heard her purr gently.

"Is it morning already?" She grumbled.

He looked up to glance over at the bedside clock. It read 11.30. "It's nearly afternoon."

"Really?"

"Mm-hmm."

She kissed his shoulder, then his neck, then his cheek, and finally to his lips. "I suppose this means I should get out of bed and feed you."

Her tone of voice was so nonchalant and she was being so casual about the whole thing—almost as if him spending the night was something that happened often—that he couldn't help but smile to himself.

"Not if you don't want to."

She sighed gently and settled back down with her face burrowed between his neck and shoulder. He was more than happy to snooze there a while with her—it was nice and peaceful and comfy. He could stay there all day if he didn't have to go home eventually. For now, he was just going to savour the time with her. It was a long time before either of them stirred again.

The notion of walking around Djaq's apartment in his underwear was a little weird, he thought once they were up—the only things he had were his work clothes and the clothes he'd worn when they went out last night, so he threw on his jeans from work and his t-shirt. Djaq was already in the little kitchen, wearing an old sweatshirt and not much else, pulling some breakfast together for them.

"I only have tea," she said apologetically. "No coffee. I do not drink it, so I don't often have it about."

He sighed inwardly—she had the most delectable accent.

"It's fine—don't apologize for it," he said back as he absently looked around the main room of the flat.

He'd offered to help her with breakfast, but she said it wasn't necessary and they would probably just get in each other's way in the tiny kitchen. Then she shooed him out into the living room, leaving him free to take in his temporary new surroundings.

Will sort of expected her to live in a neat little place, with everything fastidiously organized, white walls and tasteful art hanging up in simple frames, and medical books stacked on big bookcases. He was a little surprised to find the flat the way it was. There was a plump green sofa and two matching and equally plump chairs facing a coffee table and a television in the corner; in the cabinet underneath the telly were a Playstation2 and stacks of games. Newspapers, magazines, and game guides were scattered on and under the coffee table. Two bookcases stood against the wall; one held a colourful assortment of books, and the other was full of DVDs and videotapes.

The place looked more like his and Allan's flat, not the home of a professional woman in her thirties.

He liked it.

He turned to the right and what he saw there nearly made him leap out of his skin.

There on the floor was a _massive_ fish tank. Inside of it was a layer of gravelly sand, a wooden branch with many gnarled limbs, a little wooden shelter, and a shallow dish of water. Nestled among it all, curled up and wound around itself with a diamond-shaped head resting atop the coils, was a snake.

A really, really _big_ snake, as big around as his bicep.

"What the _hell_ is _that?"_ The question burst from his lips, and he covered his mouth with his hands.

She walked out of the kitchen area with two steaming mugs and a bemused expression on her face.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean…"

"That is just Monty," she said, as if that explained it all. Then she grinned, her eyes creasing at the corners. "You are not _scared_ of her, are you?"

He took one of the offered cups. "Well… no, not really. It's just that it's sort of… weird. Shocking is all."

"How so?"

"Most people haven't got snakes. Especially not _big_ ones." Pause. "Just how big _is_ it, anyway?"

She shrugged. "About three metres, I think, give or take. It has been a while since I have measured her properly, though."

There must have been far more snake in those coils than there appeared to be.

"What kind is it—he—she?"

"She. She's…" she paused, bit her bottom lip gently, and absently rubbed the back of her neck. "Promise not to laugh?"

He nodded dumbly, still in shock.

"She is a reticulated python."

"A retic—oh, I get it. Python, Monty. Monty Python." It was such an awful joke, but he laughed at it anyway.

As profoundly bizarre as her pet was, he took it all in stride. He loved the things that made her so different from other people, and this was no exception. It was rather exotic, unorthodox. And weirdly sexy. The snake didn't scare him; he just thought it was odd that she had one. Really, he probably shouldn't have been surprised or shocked at _anything_ he found out about Djaq—if nothing else, he knew she was full of surprises. Nothing she could do could possibly freak him out.

He just loved absolutely _everything_ about her. As silly as he knew that sounded.

"Why a snake?" He asked.

She shrugged. "She is quiet and clean, low maintenance, and if I do not feed her for a month, she does not bother. Do that with a cat, and you get the RSPCA on your case."

He snickered.

She cleared off the coffee table to make room for plates. They were, for the most part, quiet as they ate. This suited Will just fine, as he was more than content to sit there and sigh after her and to memorize every little tiny detail about her.

Her overlarge sweatshirt hung loose around her figure. The neck was far too big and if she moved _just so,_ he could see right down to her breasts. Her hair was delightfully rumpled from sleep and from their rolling around in the car and on the floor and in the bed. She was bare from the waist down but for her underwear. Her cheeks were rosy from sleep, and her bare legs were crossed ladylike as she sat on the sofa. She smelled like sleep and sex.

And she'd never been so enticing.

He couldn't _believe_ his luck—part of him still worried he was going to wake up and find that this was all a dream. But it wasn't a dream. It was _real._ He could be hit by a bus crossing the road today and he'd die happy.

Something troubled him, if only a little bit: he didn't know the extent of her feelings for him. Obviously, she liked him enough to take him out on a date _and_ to sleep with him, but different people had wildly varying criteria for people they wanted to have sex with. She admitted that she was crazy about him, but he didn't think she felt as strongly for _him_ as he did for her. He'd been infatuated with her since he'd first seen her. Love at first sight, as erroneous as that sounded even to himself. And now that he knew her better—and knew her, he daresay, _intimately—_he knew that it was love.

Of course, it was entirely possible that she _was_ in love with him, too. Someday maybe he'd ask her. Or she'd tell him. He'd keep quiet for the time being, though. The last thing he wanted was to scare her.

He offered to take the plates back to the kitchen, but she refused and told him to stay seated while she did it. When she came back, she climbed over the back of the sofa and knocked him flat on his back and kissed him thoroughly, and all thoughts more or less vacated his mind.

For now, life was perfect.

o…o

He didn't want to leave. He so ridiculously happy there and he wanted to stay with Djaq in her flat for the rest of the weekend. And maybe even a good deal beyond. But he knew that he would, eventually, have to go back home again no matter how much he was enjoying himself.

It was early evening, when the light was just beginning to grow purple and soft outside, when he finally arrived at the door to his own flat. He opened the door to an uncharacteristically worried-looking Allan sitting, arms crossed, at the kitchen table. The door wasn't even closed before his friend jumped on him.

"I was _really_ worried about you, you know!" Allan yelled, prodding his friend sharply in the chest with a finger.

"Were you really?" He asked as he drew back. "I'd've thought you'd be too busy with your own date to worry about how mine was going."

"Look, it's just really out of character for you to _not_ come home. For all I know, you coulda been abducted!"

"Geez, I'm sorry—"

"You could've phoned or something!"

"Okay, now you're sounding like my Auntie Annie."

"Don't get fresh with me."

"…Auntie?"

Allan, apparently not in the mood for any jokes or humour, punched him in the stomach. Will doubled over and sputtered in pain as he dropped his bag on the floor. He leaned on the low half-wall between the living room and the kitchen to avoid falling over.

"What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?" He wheezed. "Geezis, next time I'll phone or something, all right? I just got a little… carried away with something and I forgot. It's not like I do this often enough to make phoning you a habit."

He glared.

"Seriously. Stop being so maternal—you're acting like my aunt. All you need to complete the transition is an apron and some curlers."

Glare, glare.

"Well, while you're stewing, I think I'll get some coffee."

He could feel Allan staring at him as he walked around his friend into the kitchen. He took up a position in the entryway to the kitchen, leaning sideways and supporting himself on an elbow on the low wall. He was watching him with a stern expression. Will made his coffee and drank half of it before he spoke again.

"I appreciate your concern and all, but really, mate—just drop it, all right? I'm sorry I scared you."

He looked down and shook his head, and when he looked back at him again, he was smiling.

"I'm not really that angry, you know."

"Uh-huh."

"So where were you all day, hm?"

Will's eyebrows climbed his forehead and he looked at Allan like he'd just grown another head. Surely his friend wasn't _that _thick—especially not after all the teasing he'd done. "You've gotta be kidding," he declared. "After you gave me shit all day yesterday, I'd've thought you'd already know."

"I can't even begin to guess."

He had no idea whether his friend was just taking the piss or if he genuinely had no idea where he'd been last night. It was entirely possible that he just wanted to make him nervous by making him admit what he'd been doing last night.

"I spent the night with Djaq," he said, quickly and quietly.

"Pardon? Didn't catch that."

"I said—oh god…" he sighed. "I spent the night with Djaq, in her flat."

"What—you mean _really?"_ He asked, actually shocked to hear it.

"Well… yes."

"I thought you said you weren't gonna do anything!"

"I didn't think anything _would_ happen!"

There was a long silence as Allan stood there and scrutinized him like a scientist inspecting some oddity. He felt suddenly quite _exposed,_ even though he was fully clothed for the first time since last night.

Then he came into the kitchen and plopped down in one of the chairs. The corners of his mouth curled up in a huge grin. Then he laughed. Just laughed and laughed.

"My goodness, William, this is so unlike you!"

He said nothing to that.

"I can't believe that you had _sex_ on the first date!"

Why wasn't he just going to drop it? He sighed.

Allan feigned a stern and disapproving look and said in a low tone, "You _slut."_

Will felt himself caught somewhere between wanting to laugh at the situation, and wanting to crack his roommate over the head with a skillet. He settled for leaning back on the kitchen counter and remaining silent. Allan kept talking. And talking.

"Innocent young Will Scarlett—at the beginning of the week, you were too shy to tell her that you fancied her and you were a nervous wreck about the idea of _going on a date_ with her yesterday! I can't believe that you went from nervous stuttering and high-school crush behaviour right into sleeping with her."

His face was so intensely hot and red with blush that he felt like his whole head might explode. Allan was never, ever going to stop laughing about this. Ever.

"Yes, okay—I slept with her. Why are you making such a big deal out of this?"

"'Cos it's funny."

"I notice you're not being so forthcoming about _your_ date."

"That's because yours was way more fun."

He quirked an eyebrow. "Oh, _really?"_ He drawled, suddenly juvenilely gleeful to have the ammunition to turn the tables on him. "Are you saying that _nothing happened?"_

He grinned crookedly and shrugged. "I'm seeing her again this week."

"So _you_ didn't get anywhere, but I did."

"I know—it sounds like the topic for an episode of 'The Twilight Zone', doesn't it?"

Will snorted into his coffee and dribbled down his front.

Allan teased him about his… _activities…_ all day. Will knew it was a lot of good-natured prodding, but he was sort of getting tired of hearing it. He asked when he and Djaq were going to get married and whether or not he could expect to have another toothbrush for her in the bathroom, but was otherwise not nosy about the dirty little details of his evening. Even _Allan_ knew better than to be that crass, he imagined.

Most of the day he spent in a constant daydream, reliving that day and the previous night in his head. All the little details that gave him an illicit little thrill to recall. They hadn't spent _all_ day in bed, though. He was tickled that she'd been willing to spend much of the afternoon playing videogames with him, something he wouldn't have thought most women did. Then she sat close to him as they watched an old movie together, and rested her head on his shoulder and snuggled up to him.

She'd promised to phone later in the weekend when she dropped him off at the station—he kept his mobile on him all night Saturday and into Sunday, waiting for it to ring and feeling much like a girl waiting on her boyfriend to call. He couldn't wait to talk to her again—couldn't wait to _see_ her again—after his longtime fantasy had so unexpectedly and wonderfully come true.

And then the phone _did_ ring sometime early Sunday, he nearly knocked over the kitchen table as he dove for the phone before it even rang a second time. He composed himself and took a deep breath before he answered.

"Hello?"

"Are you all right?" The accented voice on the other end was concerned. "You sound a little winded."

"I was looking for my phone," he supplied.

"You found it quickly enough, I see."

"Yeah—I, uh, I did."

He lost track of time while talking with her. He took up a position on the sofa, leaning backwards over the arm as they giggled stupidly together like a couple of teenagers. He felt like he was a high school kid again—he half expected to hear his aunt yelling at him to hang up the phone before the month's bill got up to four figures. Allan kept walking back and forth behind him, making silly comments and smacking him in the back of the head and dangling his socks in front of his face. _That_ reminded him of high school, as well. His friend had always been an excessive irritant.

He was still amazed at his luck, and even Allan's constant teasing and obnoxious behaviour couldn't ruin his good mood.

The whole time, he was wearing the silliest dopey grin and his face was flushing pink as he talked; he couldn't see her, but he guessed she was probably wearing a similar silly grin, as well. She giggled softly at something he'd said, and his chest fluttered excitedly.

They talked and talked, on and on for hours. He didn't have lunch or dinner, and hardly even noticed when his roommate told him that he was going to sleep. He wanted to keep on the phone until Monday morning when he'd see her on the train. But the battery in his phone was dying and he had no choice but to end the conversation and go to bed.

That night, he dreamed of her. His head was full of Djaq—of her cleverness and her lilting voice, her soft skin, her unique scent, the delicious sounds of her laughter and the moans she'd voiced when they were in bed together—and the dreams of her only made him crave her even more.

o…o

0…0…0…0…0

Monty the python is a not-so-subtle jab at my father, who had a reticulated python named Monty when he was at university. My parents raised snakes before they had me. I think that explains a lot.

I told you it was just a lot of fluff. It was nice to write though—and I hope it was just as fun to read. Nothing like a bit of sweetness and fluff to make you feel and warm and fuzzy on the inside. There's only one more chapter of this story left, I'm afraid. It's a rather short story, but I'm glad that people are enjoying it. I might keep this plotbunny alive and occasionally I might write a short fic about a modern day version of our favourite characters. That might be fun.

In the meantime, enjoy the read. And do review if you feel so inclined.


	6. Someday

Once again, I find myself at a Final Chapter. It's always a little bittersweet when a story ends, even a short story like this one. I have no idea why I'm able to churn out RH fics like this lately. I'm forcing all of my plotbunnies to quiet down for a while and let me work on something else, but they're persistent little buggers. You might hear from me again soon—but then again, maybe not. Who knows? In the meantime, enjoy this final chapter. I hope you like it.

Disclaimer: Finally, at long last! I own… absolutely _none_ of the characters I'm writing about!

0…0…0…0…0

o…o

He waited for her after work, loitering outside the door to the clinic across the road. He'd waited for her like this every evening this week, walking hand-in-hand with her to the train in addition to spending those precious fifteen minutes with her on the way to work and on the way home. Those two fifteen-minute rides a day, however much he had _loved_ them and _lived_ for them before, had always had a bittersweet edge to them, the way he'd always been too shy and scared to say anything to her about it—that he'd always been so convinced that she would never, ever return his feelings. Now, all he felt was happiness at seeing her, knowing that she shared his feelings. It filled him with a warm glow.

They were talking on the phone nearly every night, spending hours talking mindlessly with one another. He sort of hated to think what his phone bill was going to be because of all of this. A few nights ago, they'd had a long, _long_ late-night conversation on the phone and Djaq had fallen asleep—he'd heard her there on the other end, breathing deeply and murmuring in her sleep. He didn't hang up his own phone, and instead kept it connected all night next to him. The next morning, he'd woken up to her apologizing profusely for falling asleep, but to him it was the next-best thing to waking up along side her. The call duration was five hours and thirty-eight minutes.

Earlier in the week, they'd gone out again—he took her to a movie and dinner—but spent the night in their _own_ flats. She'd nap on his shoulder when she was tired in the morning or in the evening. She'd kiss him good morning when she got on the train in the morning and before they parted company to go to work, and again after the ride home. It was all wonderful—amazing. Last week, he'd never have believed that things could get to this point so quickly. But he was so glad that they had.

He… he _loved_ her. At first he wasn't sure of his feelings; he thought it was just the culmination of several years of infatuation and thought little of it. But very quickly he realized that he did, indeed, love the woman. All he wanted to do was tell her, but his own shyness and uncertainty kept him from doing it. That, and it would all seem incredibly fast. What would she think about him? It'd only been a _week_ since they'd first gone out. Since the night they—

No, it was probably a bad idea to say anything.

He'd gone back and forth thinking about it, sometimes thinking it might be a good idea to tell her and other times thinking it was the dumbest idea in the world. He couldn't make up his mind, which was how he came to the conclusion that, for the time being, silence was best.

But then, he'd been head-over-heels in love with her for three years, and she had admitted in the car that she felt the same way about him, so didn't that mean…? Or was he reading into this wrong? He didn't know if she felt as strongly for him as he did for her. It was so hard to figure her out. Better to say nothing for a while, he thought, until he could be more sure of things.

Will didn't know quite what to call this new relationship with Djaq. They were certainly more than _friends,_ but what were they, exactly? Was she his girlfriend, or what? He had no idea. He'd thought to ask her about it, but decided against it. Djaq wasn't the type to worry over silly casual titles like 'girlfriend' or 'boyfriend' and probably wouldn't have had an answer for him, anyway.

He'd learned more about her in the last week than he had in the last three years of their casual friendship combined. Now that he knew almost all there was to know about her, he was even more in love with her. As far as he was concerned, she was perfect.

Now that he was with Djaq, he spent quite a bit less time daydreaming about her at work. It had been over a week since he last time he'd done something stupid and work-related while fantasizing about her during the workday.

And he still looked forward to seeing her every day—especially today. It was Friday, and they had the whole weekend ahead of them. A quiet little _wicked_ chuckle rumbled up in his throat. Oh, was he looking forward to the weekend…

Yesterday morning on the train he'd approached her and kissed her good morning, and then—instinctively cautious—asked what she was doing over the weekend.

"Why?" She'd asked back with a sly grin. She was tracing little patterns on his knee with the tip of her finger and he'd nearly forgotten what it was he wanted to say.

"My roommate's not gonna be home this weekend," he rasped.

"Mm, really?"

He'd had to take a deep breath before continuing. It was almost harder for him to control himself around her _now_ than before they'd begun this relationship. He calmed himself down and continued. "Oh, yes. If you came to my flat, we'd have the place to ourselves all weekend."

"All to ourselves, hm?" She'd purred. "I like the sound of that."

She was absolutely a _seductress,_ Will decided. She must've been telepathic, because she apparently knew on instinct _exactly_ what to say and how to say it to make him absolutely _batty._ He loved it.

"Shall I follow you home tomorrow?" She asked him when he hadn't said anything else.

"Of course."

"It's a date, then," she'd said, and arched up to kiss his cheek.

Now he'd been looking forward to this weekend since this conversation. He spent all last night cleaning the flat to make it look marginally presentable to the woman and not like a cave where two Neanderthals lived. This meant picking the dirty socks and underwear up off the floor and the chairs and from being draped over lights and protruding corners, balling them up, and sticking them into a drawer somewhere to be dealt with sometime later. He'd run the hoover over the carpets for the first time in goodness knew how long. He'd put clean sheets on his bed—and also on Allan's bed, because he couldn't be sure where they were going to end up and didn't want to chance it.

His friend spent the entire time laughing at him, teasing him relentlessly. Will ignored everything he said, though, as he daydreamed about the woman for whom he was cleaning the flat.

Today was the day, and he was waiting for her outside of the doctor's office. The doors were locked and he wasn't allowed to go in, so he had to stand out on the front step under the awning and wait, huddled into his coat to protect him from the cold. Finally, he saw her appear from the back of the clinic, come through the lobby, and out into the cold air with him. She stood a little higher on her toes and kissed him gently, then hefted her overnight bag on her shoulder.

"Sorry about that," she apologized. "The intern is sometimes a little hard to get rid of. She does not know when to shut up."

"No worries," he said. "D'you want me to take that for you?" He asked, pointing to her bag.

She giggled. "It is all right. It's not that heavy."

"I'm trying to be a gentleman," he said.

"I know, but I am fine. Really. And anyway—" she rose up again and lay ticklish and feathery-light kisses on his lips. "Gentlemen are no fun. I prefer you just as you are."

He felt incredibly warm and came out all over in goosebumps as she spoke. Suddenly the forty minutes it was going to take to get back to his flat seemed unbearably long.

Djaq kept her hands to herself for most of the train ride and the car ride back to his flat. It was cold and dark and the stairs inside the building were frozen and slick, so they had to take them _slowly_ lest one of them fall and break something. It drew out the torment a little bit more.

The second they were over the threshold and the door was closed behind them, she pounced on him. Will didn't even have time to check the flat to make sure that they were indeed alone—fortunately, Allan was already gone, and they had the place to themselves.

Later, she was curled up at his back in bed, her arms wrapped around his shoulders. They were warm and sweaty, tired, and thoroughly debauched. They'd stayed up late into the night watching old movies from his embarrassingly vast collection and curled up on the sofa together. It was a long time since he'd had a girlfriend, and she felt… she felt nice there against him.

They were in bed, and she was mouthing little kisses down his neck and shoulders. They both sighed softly, contentedly. After a while, she stilled and her breathing evened and he figured she was asleep. He shifted carefully and repositioned her until she was resting her head on his shoulder and breathing on his neck, her arm limply draped around his middle.

He stroked her hair, down her neck and back, then back up again. She shivered slightly, murmured something softly against his neck, and cuddled up closer before she stilled again. He took one last look down at her before he reached down and pulled the blankets up over them. She snuggled up closer to him and he sighed hugely.

With her there, sleeping peacefully on his chest, wrapped in his blankets, looking sweetly rumpled and lovely—he couldn't help it. He craned his neck and whispered the words in her ear as she slept.

"I love you."

The world didn't tilt off of its axis. She didn't wake up and beat him to death with a stick. All that happened was that she shifted a little against him and purred. He pretended that she'd understood what he said, and began to drift off to sleep.

"I love you, too."

It was soft and gentle and barely audible.

His eyes snapped open immediately as he sat up to look at her, but to all appearances she was still fast asleep as she had been, albeit with a little smirk on her lips. Had she really said it, or was it just his imagination? He didn't know, but it was wonderful. Maybe he'd ask her about it in the morning.

Then again, maybe not. Maybe he'd just be content with believing she'd heard what he said, whether it actually was real or just a product of his imagination. One way or another, he was happy about it. For now, it was enough. One day he wouldn't be so frightened and he'd actually say something to her when he was sure she'd hear him.

Someday.

o…o

0…0…0…0…0

The End. Thanks once again to my readers and reviewers for staying with the story, even though it's a Dreaded Modern AU. (Cue dramatic reverb.) I'm glad you all gave it a go, and I'm glad you liked it. Thanks to everybody who left feedback, as well. I'm playing with the tentative idea of keeping this whole modern RH setting alive and coming back to it from different character's PoVs in future whenever I want to do something a little weird. I'm not promising anything, but I wouldn't rule it out either. Part of me wants to imagine what the character's lives would be like if they were from a modern time—the other part of me is persistently screaming to destroy the modern AU plotbunnies before they overpopulate and enslave the earth.

Until next time, then. Au revoir.


End file.
